UC-NRLF 


17Q 


AN  IMPERATIVE   DUTY, 


BY 

W.   D.   IIOWKLLS 

Al'THuR  OF 

HAZARD  OF  NEW  FORTUNES"  'ANNIE  KILBURN"  ETOL 


NEW    YORK 

HARPER  &    BROTHERS,   KKANKLIN"   SQUARE 
1893 


Copyright,  1891,  by  WILLIAM  DKAN  HOWELLS. 


All  rights  reserved. 


Electrotyped  "by  S.  J.  PARKHIU.  *  Co,,  Boston. 


AN  IMPERATIVE   DUTY. 


I. 

OLNEY  got  back  to  Boston  about  the  middle  of 
July,  and  found  himself  in  the  social  solitude  which 
the  summer  makes  more  noticeable  in  that  city  than  in 
any  other.  The  business,  the  hard  work  of  life,  was 
going  on,  galloping  on,  as  it  always  does  in  America, 
but  the  pleasure  of  life,  which  he  used  to  be  part  of  as 
a  younger  man,  was  taking  a  rest,  or  if  not  a  rest,  then 
certainly  an  outing  at  the  sea-shore.  He  met  no  one 
he  knew,  and  In-  roiitinurd  his  foreign  travels  in  his 
native  place,  after  an  absence  so  long  that  it  made 
everything  once  so  familiar  bewilderingly  strange. 

He  had  sailed  ten  days  before  from  Liverpool,  but 
he  felt  as  if  he  had  been  voyaging  in  a  vicious  circle 
when  he  landed,  and  had  arrived  in  Liverpool  again. 
In  several  humiliating  little  ways,  Boston  recalled  the 
most  commonplace  of  English  cities.  It  was  not  like 
Liverpool  in  a  certain  civic  grandiosity,  a  sort  of  lion- 
and-unicorn  spectacularity  which  he  had  observed 
tin-re.  The  resemblance  appeared  to  him  in  the 
meanness  and  dulness  of  many  of  the  streets  in  the 
older  part  of  the  town  where  he  was  lodged,  and  in  the 


2  AN    ICVIPE'RATIVE    DUTY. 

littleness  of  the  houses.  Then  there  was  a  curious 
similarity  in  the  figures  and  faces  of  the  crowd.  He 
had  been  struck  by  the  almost  American  look  of  the 
poorer  class  in  Liverpool,  and  in  Boston  he  was  struck 
by  its  English  look.  He  could  half  account  for  this  by 
the  fact  that  the  average  face  and  figure  one  meets  in 
Boston  in  midsummer,  is  hardly  American ;  but  the 
other  half  of  the  puzzle  remained.  He  could  only 
conjecture  an  approach  from  all  directions  to  a  common 
type  among  those  who  work  with  their  hands  for  a 
living ;  what  he  had  seen  in  Liverpool  and  now  saw 
in  Boston  was  not  the  English  type  or  the  American 
type,  but  the  proletarian  type.  He  noticed  it  espe 
cially  in  the  women,  and  more  especially  in  the  young 
girls,  as  he  met  them  in  the  street  after  their  day's 
work  was  done,  and  on  the  first  Sunday  afternoon  fol 
lowing  his  arrival,  as  he  saw  them  in  the  Common. 
By  far  the  greater  part  of  those  listening  to  the  brass 
band  which  was  then  beginning  to  vex  the  ghost  of 
our  poor  old  Puritan  Sabbath  there,  were  given  away 
by  their  accent  for  those  primary  and  secondary  Irish 
who  abound  with  us.  The  old  women  were  strong, 
sturdy,  old-world  peasants,  but  the  young  girls  were 
thin  and  crooked,  with  pale,  pasty  complexions,  and 
an  effect  of  physical  delicacy  from  their  hard  work 
and  hard  conditions,  which  might  later  be  physical  re 
finement.  They  were  conjecturably  out  of  box  facto 
ries  and  clothier's  shops  ;  they  went  about  in  threes  or 
fours,  with  their  lank  arms  round  one  another's  waists, 
or  lounged  upon  the  dry  grass ;  and  they  seemed  fond 


AN    IMIM.KATIVK    DUTY.  3 

oi  u  •  aring  red  J«TM-\>.  which  accented  every  fact  of 
their  anatomy.  Looking  at  them  scientifically,  Olney 
thought  that  if  they  survived  to  be  mothers  they  might 
give  us,  with  better  conditions,  a  race  as  halt-  and 
handsome  as  the  elder  American  race  ;  but  the  transi 
tion  from  the  Old  World  to  tin-  New,  as  represented 
in  them,  was  painful.  Their  voices  were  at  once 
COane  and  weak  ;  their  walk  was  uncertain,  now  awk- 
\\ard  and  now  graceful,  an  undeveloped  gait  |  he  found 
their  bearing  apt  to  be  ai^n •— i\e,  as  if  from  a  wMi  to 
ascertain  the  full  limits  of  their  social  freedom,  rather 
than  from  ill-nature,  or  that  bad-heartedness  which 
most  rudeness  comes  from. 

But,  in  fact,  Olin-y  met  nowhere  the  deference  from 
beneath  that  his  long  sojourn  in  Europe  had  accus 
tomed  him  to  consider  politeness.  lie  was  used  in  all 
public  places  with  a  kindness  mixed  with  roughness, 
which  is  probably  the  real  republican  manner;  the 
manner  of  Florence  before  the  Medici ;  the  manner  of 
Venice  when  the  Florentines  were  wounded  by  it 
after  the  Medici  corrupted  them ;  the  manner  of  the 
French  when  the  Terror  had  done  its  work.  Nobody 
proved  unamiable,  though  everybody  seemed  so  at  first ; 
not  even  the  waiters  at  his  hotel,  where  he  was  served 
bv  adoptive  eiti/ens  who  looked  so  much  like  brigands 
that  he  could  not  help  expecting  to  be  carried  off  and 
held  somewhere  for  ransom  when  he  first  came  into 
the  dining-room.  They  wore  immense  black  mus 
taches  or  huge  whiskers,  or  else  the  American  beard 
cut  slanting  from  the  corners  of  the  mouth.  They 


4  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

had  a  kind  of  short  sack  of  alpaca,  which  did  not  sup 
port  one's  love  of  gentility  like  the  conventional  dress- 
coat  of  the  world-wide  waiter,  or  cheer  one's  heart  like 
the  white  linen  jacket  and  apron  of  the  negro  waiter. 
But  Olney  found  them,  upon  what  might  be  called 
personal  acquaintance,  neither  uncivil  nor  unkind, 
though  they  were  awkward  and  rather  stupid.  They 
could  not  hide  their  eagerness  for  fees,  and  they  took 
an  interest  in  his  well-being  so  openly  mercenary,  that 
he  could  scarcely  enjoy  his  meals.  With  two  of  those 
four-winged  whirligigs  revolving  on  the  table  before 
him  to  scare  away  the  flies,  and  working  him  up  to 
such  a  vertigo  that  he  thought  he  must  swoon  into  his 
soup,  Olney  was  uncomfortably  aware  of  the  Irish 
waiter  standing  so  close  behind  his  chair  that  his 
stomach  bulged  against  it,  and  he  felt  his  breath  com 
ing  and  going  on  the  bald  spot  on  his  crown.  He 
could  not  put  out  his  hand  to  take  up  a  bit  of  bread 
without  having  a  hairy  paw  thrust  forward  to  antici 
pate  his  want ;  and  he  knew  that  his  waiter  considered 
each  service  of  the  kind  worth  a  good  deal  extra,  and 
expected  to  be  remembered  for  it  in  our  silver  coin 
age,  whose  unique  ugliness  struck  Olney  afresh. 

He  would  not  have  been  ready  to  say  that  one  of 
the  negro  waiters,  whom  he  wished  they  had  at  his 
hotel,  would  not  have  been  just  as  greedy  of  money; 
but  he  would  have  clothed  his  greed  in  such  a  smiling 
courtesy  and  such  a  childish  simple-heartedness  that  it 
would  have  been  graceful  and  winning.  He  would 
have  used  tact  in  his  ministrations  ;  he  would  not  have 


AN     MirKKAHYK     IM'TY.  5 

cumbered  him  with    >ervi«v,    as    from   a    wheelbarrow, 

lnit  \\niihl  have  given  him  :i  toucli  of  help  here,  and  a 
little  mor>el  of  attention  there;  IK-  would  liave  kept 
aloof  as  well  as  alert.  That  is,  he  would  have  had  all 
these  charms  if  lit-  were  at  hi>  best,  and  In-  would  have 
had  >ome  of  them  if  he  were  at  his  worst. 

In  tact,  the  one  aspect  of  our  mixed  humanity  here 
which  struck  Gluey  as  altogether  agreeable  in  getting 
home  was  tl.  it  of  the  race  which  vexes  our  social 
question  with  its  servile  pa>t,  and  promises  to  keep  it 
uncomfortable  with  its  civic  future.  lie  had  not  for 
gotten  that,  so  far  as  society  in  the  society  sense  is 
concerned,  we  have-  always  frankly  simplified  the  mat 
ter,  and  no  more  consort  with  the  negroes  than  we  do 
with  the  lower  animals,  so  that  one  would  be  <ju;te  as 
likely  to  meet  a  cow  or  a  horse  in  an  American  draw 
ing-room  as  a  person  of  color.  But  he  had  forgotten 
how  entirely  the  colored  people  keep  to  themselves  in 
all  public  places,  and  how,  with  the  same  civil  rights 
as  ourselves,  they  have  their  own  neighborhood-,  their 
own  church* •>.  their  own  amusements,  their  own  re- 
BOrtS.  They  were  ju>t  as  free  to  come  to  the  mu>5<- 
on  the  Common  that  Sunday  afternoon  as  any  of  the 
white  people  lie  >aw  there.  They  could  have  walked 
up  and  down,  they  could  have  lounged  upon  the  grass, 
and  no  one  would  have  molested  them,  though  the 
whites  would  have  kept  apart  from  them.  But  he 
found  very  few  of  them  there.  It  was  not  till  he  fol 
lowed  a  group  away  from  the  Common  through 
Charles  Street,  where  they  have  their  principal  church, 


6  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

into  Cambridge  Street,  which  is  their  chief  promenade, 
that  he  began  to  see  many  of  them.  In  the  humbler 
side-hill  streets,  and  in  the  alleys  branching  upward 
from  either  thoroughfare,  they  have  their  homes,  and 
here  he  encountered  them  of  all  ages  and  sexes.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  they  had  increased  since  he  was 
last  in  Boston  beyond  the  ratio  of  nature  ;  and  the 
hotel  clerk  afterward  told  him  there  had  been  that 
summer  an  unusual  influx  of  negroes  from  the  South. 

He  would  not  have  known  the  new  arrivals  by  any 
thing  in  their  looks  or  bearing.  Their  environment 
had  made  as  little  impression  on  the  older  inhabitants, 
or  the  natives,  as  Time  himself  inakes  upon  persons  of 
their  race,  and  Olney  fancied  that  Boston  did  not 
characterize  their  manner,  as  it  does  that  of  almost 
every  other  sort  of  aliens.  They  all  alike  seemed 
shining  with  good-nature  and  good-will,  and  the  desire 
of  peace  on  earth.  Their  barbaric  taste  in  color, 
when  it  flamed  out  in  a  crimson  necktie  or  a  scarlet 
jersey,  or  when  it  subdued  itself  to  a  sable  that  left  no 
gleam  of  white  about  them  but  a  point  or  rim  of  shirt 
collar,  was  invariably  delightful  to  him;  but  he  had 
to  own  that  their  younger  people  were  often  dressed 
with  an  innate  feeling  for  style.  Some  of  the  young 
fellows  were  very  effective  dandies  of  the  type  we 
were  then  beginning  to  call  dude,  and  were  marked 
by  an  ultra  correctness,  if  there  is  any  such  thing ; 
they  had  that  air  of  being  clothed  through  and 
through,  as  to  the  immortal  spirit  as  well  as  the  per 
ishable  body,  by  their  cloth  gaiters,  their  light  trousers, 


•  AN   iMi>i:i:  ^  i  i\  r    LI  rv.  7 

their  neatly-buttoned  cutaway  coat-,  their  harmonious 
>carK  and  their  silk  liats.  They  carried  on  flirtations 
of  the  eye  with  the  young  colored  "iris  they  met,  or 
when  they  were  walking  with  them  they  paid  them  a 
court  which  wa-  far  above  the  lieliavior  of  the  common 
young  white  fellows  with  the  girls  of  their  class  in 
refinement  ami  delieaey.  The  negroes,  if  they  wished 
to  imitate  the  manners  of  our  race,  wished  to  imitate 
the  manners  of  the  best  among  us;  they  wished  to-be 
like  ladies  and  gentlemen.  But  the  young  white  girls 
and  their  fellows  whom  Olney  saw  during  the  evening 
in  possession  of  most  of  the  benches  in  the  Common 
and  the  Public  Garden,  and  between  the  lawns  of 
Commonwealth  Avenue,  apparently  did  not  wi>h  to  be  X 
like  ladies  and  gentlemen  in  their  behavior.  The  fel 
low  in  each  case  had  his  arm  about  the  girl's  waist, 
and  she  had  her  head  at  times  upon  his  shoulder;  if 
the  branch  of  a  tree  overhead  ca-t  the  smallest  rag 
or  tatter  of  shadow  upon  them,  she  had  her  head 
on  his  shoulder  most  of  the  time.  Olney  was  rather 
abashed  when  he  passed  close  to  one  of  these  couples, 
but  they  seemed  to  .-uffer  no  embarrassment.  They 
had  apparently  no  concealments  to  make,  nothing  to 
be  ashamed  of ;  and  they  had  really  nothing  to  give 
tlu-m  a  sense  of  guilt.  They  wen-  -imply  vulgar  young 
people,  who  were  publicly  abusing  the  freedom  our  • 
civilization  gives  their  youth,  without  knowing  anv 
better,  or  meaning  any  worse.  Olney  knew  this,  but 
he  could  not  help  remarking  to  the  advantage,  of  the 
.u-groe>,  that  among  all  these  couples  on  the  benches 


8  Atf    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

of  the  Common  and  the  Garden  and  the  Avenue,  he 
never  found  a  colored  couple.  He  thought  that  some 
of  the  young  colored  girls,  as  he  met  them  walking 
with  their  decorous  beaux,  were  very  pretty  in  their 
way.  They  had  very  thin,  high,  piping  voices,  that 
had  an  effect  both  of  gentleness  and  gentility.  With 
their  brilliant  complexions  of  lustrous  black,  or  rich 
cafe,  au  lait,  or  creamy  white,  they  gave  a  vividness  to 
the  public  spectacle  which  it  would  not  otherwise  have 
had,  and  the  sight  of  these  negroes  in  Boston  some 
how  brought  back  to  Olney's  homesick  heart  a  sense 
of  Italy,  where  he  had  never  seen  one  of  their  race. 


II. 

OLNEY  was  very  homesick  for  Italy  that  Sunday 
night.  After  two  days  in  Boston,  mostly  spent  in  ex 
ploring  the  once  familial-  plan-sin  it.  ami  di-covering 
the  new  and  strange  ones,  he  hardly  knew  which  made 
him  feel  more  hopelessly  alien.  lie  had  been  live 
vears  a  wax .  and  he  perceived  that  the  effort  to  repa 
triate  himself  must  involve  wounds  as  sore  as  those  of 
the  lirst  days  of  exile.  The  tissues  then  lacerated 
must  bleed  again  before  his  life  could  be  reunited 
with  the  stock  from  which  it  had  been  torn.  lie  felt 
himself  unable  to  bear  the  pain ;  and  he  found  no  at 
traction  of  novelty  in  the  future  before  him.  He  knew 
the  Boston  of  his  coming  years  too  well  to  have  any 
illusions  about  it ;  and  he  had  known  too  many  other 
places  to  have  kept  the  provincial  superstitions  or  his 
nonage  and  his  earlier  manhood  concerning  its  primacy. 
He  believed  he  should  succeed,  but  that  it  would  be  in 
a  minor  cit Y,  after  a  struggle  with  competitors  who 
would  be  just,  and  who  might  be  generous,  but  uho 
would  be  able,  thoroughly  equipped,  and  perfectly  dis 
ciplined.  The  light  would  be  long,  even  if  it  were 
victorious;  its  prizes  would  be  hard  to  win,  however 
splendid.  Neither  the  light  nor  the  prizes  seemed  so 
attractive  now  as  they  had  .seemed  at  a  distance,  lie 


10  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

wished  he  had  been  content  to  stay  in  Florence,  where 
he  could  have  had  the  field  to  himself,  if  the  harvest 
could  never  have  been  so  rich.  But  he  understood, 
even  while  he  called  himself  a  fool  for  coming  home, 
that  he  could  not  have  been  content  to  stay  without 
first  coming  away. 

When  he  went  abroad  to  study,  he  had  a  good  deal 
of  money,  and  the  income  from  it  was  enough  for  him 
to  live  handsomely  on  anywhere ;  in  Italy  it  was 
enough  to  live  superbly  on.  But  the  friend  with 
whom  he  left  his  affairs,  had  put  all  of  Olney's  eggs 
into  one  basket.  It  was  the  Union  Pacific  basket 
which  he  chose,  because  nearly  every  one  in  Boston 
was  choosing  it  at  the  same  time,  with  the  fatuous 
faith  of  Bostonians  in  their  stocks.  Suddenly  Olney's 
income  dropped  from  five  or  six  thousand  a  year  to 
nothing  at  all  a  year  ;  and  his  pretty  scheme  of  re 
maining  in  Italy  and  growing  up  with  the  country  in 
a  practice  among  the  nervous  Americans  who  came 
increasingly  abroad  every  year,  had  to  be  abandoned, 
or  at  least  it  seemed  so  at  the  time.  Now  he  wished 
he  had  sold  some  of  his  depreciated  stock,  which  every 
body  said  would  be  worth  as  much  as  ever  some  day, 
and  taken  the  money  to  live  on  till  he  could  begin 
earning  some.  This  was  what  Garofalo,  his  friend  and 
fellow-student  in  Vienna,  and  now  Professor  of  the 
Superior  Studies  at  Florence,  urged  him  to  do  ;  and 
the  notion  pleased  him,  but  could  not  persuade  him.  It 
was  useless  for  Garofalo  to  argue  that  he  would  have 
to  get  the  means  of  living  in  Boston  in  some  such 


AX    niri.u  \ TIN  i.    ix  ii .  11 

wav,  if  IK-  went  home  to  establish  himself  ;  Olney  be 
lieved  that  he  should  be^in  earning  money  in  larger 
sums  if  not  sooner  at  home.  Besides,  he  recurred  to 
that  vamie  ideal  of  duty  which  all  virtuous  Americans 
have,  and  he  felt  that  he  ought,  as  an  American,  to 
live  in  America.  He  had  been  quite  willing  to  think 
of  living  in  Italy  while  he  had  the  means,  but  as  soon 
a<  he  had  no  means,  his  dormant  sense  of  patriotism 
roused  itself.  He  said  that  if  he  had  to  make  a  fight, 
he  would  go  where  other  people  were  making  it,  and 
where  it  would  not  seem  so  unnatural  as  it  would  in 
the  secular  repose  of  Florence,  among  those  who  Lad 
all  put  off  their  armor  at  the  close  of  the  sixteenth 
century.  Garofalo  alleged  the  intellectual  activity 
everywhere  around  him  in  science,  literature,  philos 
ophy.  Gluey  could  not  say  that  it  seemed  to  him  a 
life  referred  from  Germany,  France  and  England, 
without  root  in  Italian  soil ;  but  he  could  answer  that 
all  this  might  very  well  be  without  affording  a  lucrative 
practice  for  a  specialist  in  nervous  diseases,  who  could 
be  most  prosperous  where  nervous  diseases  most 
abounded. 

The  question  was  joked  away  between  them,  and  in 
the  end  there  never  seemed  to  have  been  any  very 
serious  question  of  Olney's  staying  in  Florence.  Now, 
if  there  had  not  been  really,  he  wished  there  really 
had  been.  Everything  discouraged  him,  somehow; 
and  no  doubt  his  depression  was  partly  a  physical 
mood.  He  had  never  expected  to  find  people  in  town 
at  that  time  in  the  summer,  or  to  begin  practice  at 


12  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

once  ;  he  had  only  promised  himself  to  look  about  and 
be  suitably  settled  to  receive  the  nervous  sufferers 
when  they  began  to  get  back  in  the  fall.  Yet  the 
sight  of  all  those  handsome  houses  on  the  Back  Bay, 
where  nervous  suffering,  if  it  were  to  avail  him,  must 
mainly  abide,  struck  a  chill  to  his  spirit  ;  they  seemed 
to  repel  his  intended  ministrations  with  their  barri 
caded  doorways  and  their  close-shuttered  windows. 
His  failure  to  find  Dr.  Wingate,  with  whom  he  had 
advised  about  his  studies,  and  with  whom  he  had 
hoped  to  talk  ovc  r  his  hopes,  was  peculiarly  disheart 
ening,  though  when  he  reasoned  with  himself  he  saw 
that  there  was  au  imperative  logic  in  Wingate's  ab 
sence  ;  a  nervous  specialist  of  his  popularity  must,  of 
course,  have  followed  nervous  suffering  somewhere 
out  of  town.  Still  it  was  a  disappointment,  and  it 
made  the  expense  of  Olney's  sojourn  seem  yet  more 
ruinous.  The  hotel  where  he  had  gone  for  cheapness 
was  an  old  house  keprt  on  the  American  plan  ;  but  his 
outgo  of  three  dollars  a  day  dismayed  him  when  he 
thought  of  the  arrangiamento  he  could  have  made  in 
Florence  for  half  the  money.  He  determined  to  look 
up  a  boarding-house  in  the  morning  ;  and  the  thought 
of  this  made  him  almost  sick. 

Olney  was  no  longer  so  young  as  he  had  been  ;  we 
none  of  us  are  as  young  as  we  once  were ;  but  all  of 
us  have  not  reached  the  great  age  of  thirty,  as  he  had, 
after  seeming  sweetly  destined  to  remain  forever  in 
the  twenties.  He  belonged  to  a  family  that  became 
bald  early,  and  there  was  already  a  thin  place  in  the 


\\   IMIM.KA Ti  VK   nrrv.  13 

h.iir  on  liis  crown,  which  lie  discovered  on.-  day  when 
he  WM  looking  al  the  hack  of  liis  head  in  <he  i:la--. 
It  was  shortly  after  the  Union  Pacific  first  passed  its 
dividend,  and  it  made  him  feel  for  the  time  decrepit. 
Yet  lie  was  by  no  means  superannuated  in  other  re 
spects.  His  color  was  youthfully  fresh  ;  his  soft  full 
heard  was  of  a  rich  --olden  red  ;  what  there  was  of  his 
hair  —  and  there  was  by  no  means  little  except,  in  that 
one  spot — was  of  the  >ame  mellow  color,  which  it 
would  keep  till  forty,  without  a  touch  of  gray.  His 
liunre  had  not  lost  its  youthful  slinne^,  and  it  looked 
oven  fashionable  in  its  clothes  of  London  cut;  so  that 
any  fellow-countryman  who  disliked  his  air  of  reserve 
might  easily  have  passed  him  by  on  the  other  side, 
and  avoided  him  for  a  confounded  Englishman. 

lie  sat  on  the  high-pillared  portico  of  the  hotel, 
smoking  for  a  half-hour  after  he  returned  from  his 
evening  stroll,  and  then  he  went  to  his  room,  and  be 
gan  to  go  to  bed.  He  wa-  very  meditative  about  it, 
and  after  he  took  off  his  coat,  he  sat  on  the  edge  of 
the  bed,  pc-nsively  holding  one  shoe  in  his  hand,  until 
he  could  think  to  unlace  the  other. 


III. 

THERE  came  a  shattering  knock  at  his  door,  such 
as  rouses  you  in  the  night  when  the  porter  mistakes 
your  number  for  that  of  the  gentleman  he  was  to  call 
at  four.  Olney  shouted,  "  Come  in !  "  and  sat  waiting 
the  result,  with  his  shoe  still  in  his  hand.  The  door 
opened  and  one  of  those  Irish  faces  showed  itself. 

"  Are  you  a  doctor,  sor  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"Ahl  right." 

The  face  was  withdrawn,  and  the  door  was  closing, 
when  Olney  called  out :  "  Why  ?  What  of  it  ?  Does 
any  one  want  me  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  sor.  There's  a  lady  in  Twenty- 
wan  that  sah  your  name  in  the  paper  ;  but  she  said  not 
to  disturb  ye  if  ye  wahsn't  a  doctor." 

"  A  lady  ?  "  said  Olney.  He  rapidly  reasoned  that 
the  lady,  whoever  she  was,  had  found  his  name  printed 
in  the  Sunday  papers  among  the  arrivals  at  that 
hotel,  and  that  she  must  have  some  association  with  it. 
"  Is  she  ill  ?  Does  she  know  me  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  sor,"  said  the  man,  with  an  air  of 
wishing  to  conceal  nothing.  "  She  don't  be  in  bed, 
annyway." 

Olney  reflected  a  moment,  hesitating  between  a  cer- 


AX    JMI'KKATIVK     I>TTT.  15 

tain  vexation  :it  being  inolrstnl  with  this  ridiculous 
menage  and  a  vague  curio-ity  to  find  out  who  the 
lady  COBld  be.  Asa,  man,  he  would  ha\f  wished  to 
know  wlio  any  unknown  woman  could  be  ;  as  a  man 
of  science,  lie  divined  that  this  unknown  woman  \\as 
probably  one  of  those  difficult  invalids  who  have  to  he 
coaxed  into  anything  decisive,  oven  sending  for  a  dor- 
tor  ;  this  tentative  question  of  hers  must  represent 
ever  so  much  self-worry  and  a  high  degree  of  self-con 
quest. 

"  Tell  her,  yes,  I'm  a  doctor."  lie  >aid  to  the  man. 
He  added,  for  purposes  of  identification,  "  I)r.  Kdward 
Olney."  He  thought  for  an  instant  lie  would  send  his 
card;  but  he  decided  this  would  be  silly. 

"  Ahl  right,  sor.      Thank  ye,  sor,"  said  the  man. 

He  went  a\\a\.  and  Olney  jnit  on  the  shoe  he  had 
taken  off,  and  got  into  his  coat  again.  He  expected 
the  man  back  at  once,  and  he  wished  to  be  ready,  but 
the  messenger  did  not  come  for  ten  or  twelve  minutes. 
Then  he  brought  Olney  a  note,  superscribed  in  a 
young-lady-like  hand,  and  diiVu>ing  when  opened  a 
perfume  which  was  instantly  but  indefinitely  memorif- 
erous.  Where  had  he  last  met  the  young  ladv  who 
used  that  perfume,  so  full  of  character,  so  redolent  of 
personality?  The  mystery  was  solved  by  the  note, 
and  all  the  pleasure  of  the  writer's  presence  returned 
to  him  at  the  sicht  of  her  name. 


- 


"DEAR  SIR,  —  My  aunt.  Mrs.  Meredith,  is  so  very 
far  from  well,  that   she   asks  me   to  write  for  her,  and 
2 


16  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

beg  you  to  come  and  see  her.  She  hopes  she  is  not 
mistaken  in  thinking  it  is  Dr.  Olney  whom  she  met  at 
Professor  Garofalo's  in  Florence  last  winter ;  but  if  it 
is  not,  she  trusts  you  will  pardon  the  intrusion,  other, 
wise  unwarrantable  at  such  an  hour. 

Yours  very  truly, 

RHODA  ALDGATE." 

"  Where  is  the  room  ?  "  Olney  demanded,  putting 
the  note  into  his  breast  pocket,  and  taking  up  his  hat. 
He  smiled  to  think  how  much  less  distinctive  the  dic 
tion  was  than  the  perfume ;  he  fancied  that  Miss  Aid- 
gate  had  written  down  her  aunt's  words,  which  had  a 
formality  alien  to  the  nature  of  the  young  girl  he  re 
membered  so  agreeably.  As  he  followed  along 
through  the  apparently  aimless  corridors,  up  and  down 
short  flights  of  steps  that  seemed  to  ascend  at  one 
point  only  to  descend  at  another,  he  recalled  the  par 
ticulars  of  her  beauty  ;  her  slender  height,  her  rich 
complexion  of  olive,  with  a  sort  of  under-stain  of  red, 
and  the  inky  blackness  of  her  eyes  and  hair.  Her 
face  was  of  almost  classic  perfection,  and  the  hair, 
crinkling  away  to  either  temple,  grew  low  upon  the 
forehead,  as  the  hair  does  in  the  Clytie  head.  In 
profile  the  mouth  was  firmly  accented,  with  a  deep 
cut  outlining  the  full  lower  lip,  and  a  fine  jut  forward 
of  the  delicate  chin ;  and  the  regularity  of  the  mask 
was  farther  relieved  from  insipidity  by  the  sharp  wing- 
like  curve  in  the  sides  of  the  sensitive  nostrils.  Olney 
recalled  it  as  a  mask,  and  he  recalled  his  sense  of  her 


AN    IMTI.KA  i -IVI-:  DTTV.  17 

thi-  family  fa<v.  with  its  somewhat  tragic 
beauty.  (>\cr  a  personality  that  was  at  once  gentle  and 
pay.  The  mask,  he  felt,  was  inherited,  hut  the  char- 
art  <T  seemed  to  be  of  Miss  Aldgate's  own  invention, 
and  expressed  itself  in  the  sunny  sparkle  of  her  looks, 
that  ran  over  with  a  willingness  to  please  and  to  be 
pleax-d.  and  to  consist  in  effect  of  a  succession  of 
tla>liing,  childlike  smiles,  showing  between  her  red 
lips  teeth  of  the  milkiest  whiteness,  small,  even  and 
perfect.  These  looks,  the  evening  he  remembered 
first  meeting  her  and  her  aunt,  were  employed  chiefly 
upon  a  serious  young  clergyman,  sojourning  in  Flor 
ence  after  a  journey  to  the  Holy  Land.  But  they 
were  not  employed  coquettishly  so  much  as  sympa 
thetically,  with  a  readiness  for  laughter  that  broke  up 
the  inherited  mask  with  a  strange  contradictory  levity. 
Olney  was  himself  immersed  in  a  long  and  serious 
analysis  of  Romola  with  the  aunt,  who  appeared  to 
have  a  conscience  of  prodigious  magnifying  force,  cul 
tivated  to  the  last  degree  by  a  constant  training  upon 
the  ethical  problems  of  fiction.  She  brought  its  power 
ful  lenses  to  bear  upon  the  most  intimate  particles  of 
Tito's  character  ;  his  bad  qualities  seemed  to  give  her 
almost  as  much  satisfaction  as  if  they  had  been  her 
own.  In  knocking  at  Mrs.  Meredith's  door,  he  now 
remembered  how  charmingly  that  pretty  little  head  of 
Miss  Aldgate's,  defined  by  the  black  hair  with  its  lus 
trous  crinkle,  was  set  upon  her  shoulders. 


IV. 

THE  young  girl  herself  opened  the  door,  and  faced 
him  first  with  the  tragic  family  mask.  Then  she  put 
out  her  hand  to  him  with  the  personal  gayety  he  had 
recalled.  Her  laugh,  so  far  as  it  bore  upon  the  situ 
ation,  recognized  rather  the  good  joke  of  their  finding 
themselves  all  in  an  American  hotel  together  than 
expressed  anxiety  for  her  aunt's  condition.  It  was  so 
glad  and  free,  in  fact,  that  Olney  was  surprised  to  find 
Mrs.  Meredith  looking  quite  haggard  on  the  sofa,  from 
which  she  reached  him  her  hand  without  attempting 
to  rise. 

"  Isn't  it  the  most  fortunate  thing  in  the  world," 
said  Miss  Aldgate,  "  that  it  should  really  be  Dr.  Olney  ? 
We  couldn't  believe  it  when  we  saw  it  in  the  paper !  " 
she  added ;  and  now  Olney  perceived  that  the  laugh 
which  he  might  have  thought  indifferent,  was  a  laugh 
of  happy  relief,  of  trust  that  since  it  was  he,  all  must 
go  well. 

"Yes,  it  is  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Meredith;  but  she 
had  none  of  the  gayety  in  putting  the  burden  upon 
Olney,  under  Providence,  which  flashed  out  in  her 
niece's  smile  ;  she  appeared  to  doubt  whether  Provi 
dence  and  he  could  manage  it,  and  to  relinquish  it 
with  misgiving.  "  There  were  so  many  chances  against 


AN     IMl'l  KATIVE    DUTY.  19 

it  that  it  scarcely  M-niu-.l  possible."  Sin-  examined 
Oluey's  face,  which  had  at  once  begun  to  hide  tin-  pro 
fessional  opinion  li<-  \\as  forming,  and  seemed  to  find 
comfort  in  its  unsmiling  strength.  "  And  I  hated 
dreadfully  to  trouble  you  at  such  an  hour." 

"I  believe  there's  no  etiquette  as  to  the  time  of  a 
doctor's  visits,"  said  Oluey,  pulling  a  chair  up  to  the 
sofa,  and  looking  down  at  her.  "  I  hope,  if  things  go 
well  after  I'm  settled  here,  to  be  called  up  sometimes 
in  the  middle  of  the  night,  though  ten  o'clock  isn't 
bad  for  my  second  day  in  Boston."  Miss  Aldgate 
laughed  with  instant  appreciation  of  his  pleasant  rv.  and 
Mrs.  Meredith  wanlv  smiled.  "You  must  be  even 
more  recent  than  I  am,  Mrs.  Meredith.  I'm  afraid 
that  if  I  had  found  your  names  in  the  register  when  I 
signed  mine,  I  should  have  ventured  to  call  unprofes- 
sionally.  But  then  it  would  very  likely  have  been 
some  other  Mrs.  Meredith." 

Miss  Aldgate  laughed  again,  and  Olney  gave  her  a 
look  of  the  kindness  a  man  feels  for  any  one  who  sees 
his  joke.  She  dropped  upon  the  chair  at  the  head  of 
the  sofa,  and  invited  him  with  dancing  eyes  to  say 
some  more  of  those  things.  But  Mrs.  Meredith  took 
the  word. 

••  We  only  got  in  this  morning.  That  is,  the 
steamer  arrived  too  late  last  night  for  us  to  come 
ashore,  and  we  drove  to  the  hotel  before  breakfast. 
You  must  be  rather  surprised  to  find  us  in  such  a 

phiee." 

"  Not  at  all ;  I'm  here  myself,"  said  Olney. 


20  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

"  Oh !  "  Miss  Aldgate  laughed. 

"  I  don't  assume,"  he  added,  "  that  you  came  here 
for  cheapness,  as  I  did.  At  the  hotels  on  the 
European  plan,  as  they  call  it,  they  charge  you  as 
much  for  a  room  as  they  do  for  room  and  board  to 
gether  here." 

"  Everything  is  very  expensive,"  sighed  Mrs.  Mere 
dith.  "  We  paid  three  dollars  for  our  carriage  from 
the  ship  ;  and  I  believe  it's  nothing  to  what  it  is  in 
New  York.  But  it's  a  great  while  since  I've  been  in 
Boston,  and  I  told  them  to  bring  me  here  because  I'd 
heard  it  was  an  old-fashioned,  quiet  place.  I  felt  the 
need  of  rest,  but  it  seems  very  noisy.  It  was  very 
smooth  all  the  way  over ;  but  I  was  excited,  and  I 
slept  badly.  The  last  two  or  three  nights  I've  scarcely 
slept  at  all." 

"  Hmm !  "  said  the  doctor,  feeling  himself  launched 
upon  the  case. 

Miss  Aldgate  rose. 

"  My  dear,"  said  her  aunt,  "  I  wish  you  would  look 
up  the  prescription  the  ship's  doctor  gave  me.  I  was 
thinking  of  sending  out  to  have  it  made  up,  but  I 
shouldn't  wish  to  try  it  now  unless  Dr.  Olney  ap 
proves." 

Olney  profited  by  Miss  Aldgate's  absence  to  feel 
Mrs.  Meredith's  pulse  and  look  at  her  tongue.  He 
asked  her  a  few  formal  questions.  He  was  a  little 
surprised  to  find  her  so  much  better  than  she  looked. 

"  You  seem  a  little  upset,  Mrs.  Meredith,"  he  said. 
"You  may  be  suffering  from  suppressed  seasickness, 


AN    IM1M.U  V  I  I  VI.     IH  TV.  21 

but  I  don't  think  it's  anything  worse."  He  tried 
to  tivat  the  aifair  lightly,  and  ho  added  :  '•  1  doii't  see 
why  you  shouldn't  be  on  good  terms  with  sleep.  You 
know  Tito  slept  very  well,  even  with  a  bad  con 
science." 

Mrs.  Meredith  would  not  smile  with  him  at  the 
recurrence  to  their  last  conversation.  She  sighed, 
and  gave  him  a  look  of  tragiral  appeal.  "I  some 
times  think  lie  had  an  enviable  character." 

4k  Or  temperament,"  Olney  suggested.  "  There 
doesn't  seem  to  have  been  much  question  of  character. 
But  he  was  rertainly  well  constituted  for  getting  on  in 
:i  world  where  there  was  no  moral  law  —  if  he  could 
have  found  such  a  world." 

"  Then  you  do  believe  there  is  such  a  law  in  this 
world  ?  "  Mrs.  Meredith  demanded,  with  an  intensity 
that  did  not  flatter  Olney  he  had  been  light  to  good 
purpose. 

He  could  not  help  smiling  at  his  failure.  *'  I  would 
rather  not  say  till  you  had  got  a  night's  rest." 

"  No,  no,"  she  persisted.  "  Do  you  believe  that  any 
one  can  rightfully  live  a  lie  ?  Do  you  believe  that 
Tito  was  ever  really  at  rest  when  he  thought  of  what 
he  was  eoncealiug?  " 

"  He  seems  to  have  been  pretty  comfortable,  except 
when  Romola  got  at  him  with  her  moral  nature." 

"Ah,  don't  laugh!  "  said  Mrs.  Meredith.  ••  It  isn't 
a  thing  to  laugh  at." 

Miss  Aldgate  came  in.  with  a  serap  of  paper  flutter 
ing  from  her  slim  hand,  and  showing  her  pretty  teeth 


22  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

in  a  sinile  so  free  of  all  ethical  question  that  Olney 
swiftly  conjectured  an  anxiety  of  Mrs.  Meredith  con 
cerning  a  nature  so  apparently  free  of  all  personal 
responsibility  as  the  young  girl  looked  at  that  mo 
ment.  He  was  aware  of  innocently  rejoicing  in  this 
sense  of  her,  which  came  from  the  goodness  and  sweet 
ness  which  she  looked  as  much  as  the  irresponsibility. 
It  might  be  that  Mrs.  Meredith  had  lost  sleep  in 
revolving  the  problems  of  Miss  Aldgate's  character, 
and  the  chances  of  her  being  equal  to  the  duties  that 
had  left  so  little  of  Mrs.  Meredith.  If  such  an  aunt 
and  such  a  niece  were  formed  to  wear  upon  each 
other,  as  the  ladies  say,  it  was  clear  that  the  niece  had 
worn  the  most.  With  this  thought  evanescently  in 
mind,  Olney  took  the  prescription  from  her. 

He  read  it  over,  but  he  did  not  perceive  that  the 
sense  of  it  had  failed  to  reach  his  mind  till  Mrs.  Mere 
dith  said,  "  If  it  is  one  of  those  old-fashioned  narcotics 
—  he  called  it  a  sleeping  draught  —  I  would  rather 
not  take  it." 

Though  Olney  had  not  been  thinking  of  the  pre 
scription,  he  now  pretended  that  he  had.  "  It  would 
be  rather  a  heroic  dose  for  a  first-cabin  passenger,"  he 
said,  "  though  it  might  do  for  the  steerage."  He  took 
out  his  pocket-book  and  wrote  a  prescription  himself. 
"  There !  I  think  that  ought  to  get  you  a  night's  rest, 
Mrs.  Meredith." 

"  I  suppose  we  can  get  it  made  up  ?  "  she  said,  irres 
olutely,  lifting  herself  a  little  on  one  elbow. 

"I'll  take  it  out  and  have  it  done  myself,"  said 


AN     IMPERATIVE    1>1  TV.  "2:\ 

Oluey.      "There's    au    apothecary's    just    under    the 
hotel." 

H'    rose,  but  she  said:  "  I  can't  let  you  be  at  that 

trouble.     We  cuii  send.     Will  you  —  " 

"I  will  ring.  Aunt  Caroline,"  said  Miss  Aldgate; 
and  she  ran  forward  to  press  the  electric  button  by  the 
door. 

The  bell  was  answered  by  the  same  man  who  came 
to  call  the  doctor  to  Mr>.  Meredith.  Miss  Aldgate 
took  the  prescription,  and  rapidly  explained  to  him 
what  *he  wanted.  Wln-n  she  had  iini>hrd.  ho  looked 
up  from  the  prescription  at  Olney  with  a  puzzled 
face. 

Olney  smiled  and  Miss  Aldgate  laughed.  The  man 
had  not  understood  at  all. 

"You  know  the  apothecary's  -hop  under  the 
hotel  ?  "  Olney  began. 

*•  Yes,  I  know  that  forst-rate,  sor." 

••  Well,  take  that  paper  down  and  give  it  to  the 
apoth< can.  and  wait  till  he  makes  up  the  medicine, 
and  then  bring  it  back  to  us." 

"  This  paper,  sor  ?  " 

-•  Xo;  the  medicine." 

"  And  lave  the  paper  wid  um  ?  " 

"  Yes.  The  apothecary  will  give  you  the  medicine 
and  keep  the  prescription.  Do  you  understand  ?  " 

-  Yes,  sor." 

"Well?" 

"  Is  the  'pot'ecary  alter  bavin'  the  prescription  now, 


24  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

Olney  took  the  paper  out  of  his  hand  aiid  shook  it 
at  him.  "  This  paper  —  this  —  is  the  prescription. 
Do  you  understand  ?  " 

u  Yes,  sor." 

'"Take  it  to  the  apothecary  —  " 

"  The  man  under  the  hotel,  sor  ?  " 

"Yes,  the  one  under  the  hotel.  This  prescription 
—  this  paper  —  give  it  to  him  ;  and  he  will  make  up  a 
medicine,  and  give  it  to  you  in  a  bottle  ;  and  then  you 
bring  it  here." 

"  The  bottle,  sor  ?  " 

"  Yes,  the  bottle  with  the  medicine  in  it." 

"  Ahl  right,  sor  !     I  understand,  sor  !  " 

The  man  hurried  away  down  the  corridor,  and  Miss 
Aldgate  shut  the  door  and  broke  into  a  laugh  at  sight 
of  Olney's  face,  red  and  heated  with  the  effort  he  had 
been  making. 

Olney  laughed  too.  "  If  the  matter  had  been  much 
simpler,  I  never  should  have  got  it  into  his  head  at 
all ! " 

"  They  seem  to  have  no  imagination !  "  said  the  girl. 

-"  Or  too  much,"  suggested  Olney.  "  There  is  some 
thing  very  puzzling  to  us  Teutons  in  the  Celtic  tem 
perament.  We  don't  know  where  to  have  an  Irishman. 
We  can  predicate  of  a  brother  Teuton  that  this  will 
please  him,  and  that  will  vex  him,  but  we  can't  of  an 
Irishman.  You  treat  him  with  the  greatest  rudeness 
and  he  doesn't  mind  it ;  then  you  propose  to  be  par 
ticularly  kind  and  nice,  and  he  takes  fire  with  the 
most  bewildering  offence." 


AN     IMI'KK  V  I  !\  i:     1>1    I  V.  '2~> 


"I  know  it,"  sail  I  Mi>»  AldiMte.  "That  was  the 
way  with  all  our  cooks  in  New  York.  Don't  you 
remember,  aunty  ?  " 

Mrs.  Meredith  made  no  answer,  and 

••  We  can't  call  them  Mupid."  Olney  went  on.  "I 
think  that  as  a  gem-nil  thing  the  Irish  are  quicker- 
witted  than  we  are.  They're  sympathetic  and  poetic 
far  beyond  us.  But  they  can't  understand  the  sim 
plest  thing  from  us.  Perhaps  they  set  the  high  con 
structive  faculties  of  the  imagination  at  work,  when 
they  ought  to  u>e  a  little  attention  and  mere  common- 
sense.  At  any  rate  they  seem  more  foreign  to  our 
intelligence,  our  way  of  thinking,  than  the  Jews  —  or 
the  negroes  even." 

"Oh,  I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  that  about  the 
negroes,"  said  Miss  Aldgate.  "We  wen;  having  a 
dispute  this  afternoon,"  she  explained,  "about  the 
white  waiters  here  and  the  colored  waiters  at  the 
Hotel  Vendome.  I  was  calling  on  some  friends  \\«- 
have  there,"  and  Miss  Aldgate  flushed  a  little  as  she 
said  this:  "or  rather,  they  came  here  to  see  us,  and 
then  I  drove  back  with  them  a  moment  ;  and  it  made 
me  quite  homesick  to  come  away  and  leave  those  black 
waiters.  Don't  you  think  they're  charming?  With 
those  soft  voices  and  gentle  manners?  My  aunt  has 
no  patience  with  me  ;  she  can't  bear  to  have  me  look 
at  them;  but  I  never  see  one  of  them  without  loving 
tln-m.  I  suppose  it's  because  they're  about  the  first 
thing  I  can  remember.  I  was  born  in  the  South,  you 
know.  Perhaps  I  got  to  having  a  sort  of  fellow- 


26  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

feeling  with  them  from  my  old  black  nurse.  You 
know  the  Italians  say  you  do." 

She  turned  vividly  toward  Gluey,  as  if  to  refer  the 
scientific  point  to  him,  but  he  put  it  by  with  a  laugh. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  feel  about  them  as  Miss  Aldgate 
does,  Mrs.  Meredith ;  and  I  hadn't  an  old  black 
nurse,  either.  I've  been  finding  them  delightful, 
wherever  I've  seen  them,  since  I  got  back."  Miss 
Aldgate  clapped  her  hands.  "  To  be  sure,  I  haven't 
been  here  long  enough  to  get  tired  of  them." 

"  Oh,  I  should  never  tire  of  them !  "  said  the  girl. 

"  But  so  far,  certainly,  they  seem  to  me  the  most 
agreeable,  the  most  interesting  feature  of  the  social 
spectacle." 

"  There,  Aunt  Caroline  !  " 

"  I  must  confess,"  Olney  went  on,  "  that  it's  given 
me  a  distinct  pleasure  whenever  I've  met  one  of 
them.  They  seem  to  be  the  only  people  left  who 
have  any  heart  for  life  here ;  they  all  look  hopeful 
and  happy,  even  in  the  rejection  from  their  fellow- 
men,  which  strikes  me  as  one  of  the  most  preposter 
ous,  the  most  monstrous  things  in  the  world,  now  I've 
got  back  to  it  here." 

Mrs.  Meredith  lay  with  her  hand  shading  her  eyes 
and  half  her  face.  She  asked,  without  taking  her 
hand  away,  "  Would  you  like  to  meet  them  on  terms 
of  social  equality  —  intermarry  with  them  ?  " 

"  Oh,  now,  Aunt  Caroline  !  "  Miss  Aldgate  broke  in. 
"  Who's  talking  of  anything  like  that  ?  " 

"  I  certainly  am  not,"  said  Olney,  "  as  far  as  the 


AN    IMPERATIVE.    WTY.  27 

intermarrying  is  concerned.  But  short  of  that  I  don't 
iee  why  our  shouldn't  associate  with  them.  There  are 
terms  a  good  deal  short  of  the  affection  we  lavish  on 
dogs  and  horses  that  I  fancy  they  might  be  very  glad 
of.  "We  might  recognize  them  as  fellow-beings  in  pub 
lic,  if  we  don't  in  private ;  but  we  ignore,  if  we  don't 
repulse  them  at  every  point  —  from  our  business  as 
well  as  our  bosoms.  Yes,  it  strikes  one  as  very  odd 
on  getting  home  —  very  funny,  very  painful.  You 
would  think  we  might  meet  on  common  ground  before 
our  common  God  —  but  we  don't.  They  have  their 
own  churches,  and  I  suppose  it  would  be  as  surprising 
to  find  one  of  them  at  a  white  communion-table  as  ii 
would  to  find  one  at  a  white  dinner-party." 

Gluey  said  this  without  the  least  feeling  about  the 
matter,  except  a  sense  of  its  grotesqueness.  He  was 
himself  an  agnostic,  but  he  could  be  as  censorious  of 
the  Christians  who  denied  Christ  in  the  sacrament,  as 
if  he  had  himself  been  a  better  sort.  He  added  : 

u  Possibly  the  negroes  wrould  be  welcome  in  a  Cath 
olic  church ;  the  Catholics  seem  to  have  kept  the  ideal 
of  Christian  equality  in  their  churches.  If  ever  they 
turn  their  attention  to  the  negroes  —  " 

"  Oh,  I  can't  imagine  a  colored  Catholic,"  said  Miss 
Aldgate.  "  There  seems  something  unnatural  in  the 
very  idea." 

*•  All  the  same,  there  are  a  good  many  of  them." 

"Jn  Boston?" 

"  No,  not  in  Boston,  I  fancy." 

Mrs.  Meredith  had  taken  no  farther  part  in  the  con- 


28  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

versation ;  she  lay  rigidly  quiet  on  her  sofa,  with  her 
hand  shading  her  eyes. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  Miss  Aldgate 
sprang  to  open  it,  with  the  effect  of  being  glad  to  work 
off  her  exuberant  activity  in  that  or  any  other  way  : 
with  Mrs.  Meredith  so  passive,  and  Olney  so  acquies 
cent,  the  discussion  of  the  race  problem  was  not  half 
enough  for  her. 

The  man  was  there,  with  the  bottle  from  the  apoth 
ecary's,  and  he  and  Miss  Aldgate  had  a  beaming  little 
interview.  He  exulted  in  getting  back  with  the  medi 
cine  all  right,  and  she  gratefully  accepted  his  high 
sense  of  his  offices,  and  repaid  him  his  outlay,  running 
about  the  room,  and  opening  several  trunks  and  bags 
to  find  her  purse,  and  then  added  something  for  his 
trouble. 

"  Dear  me  !  "  she  said,  when  she  got  rid  of  him,  "  I 
wish  they  wouldn't  make  it  quite  so  clear  that  they 
expected  to  be  *  remembered.'  They've  kept  my 
memory  on  the  qui  vive  every  moment  I've  been  in 
the  hotel." 

Olney  smiled  in  sympathy  as  he  took  the  bottle  from 
her.  "  I've  found  it  impossible  to  forget  the  least 
thing  they've  done  for  me,  and  I  never  boasted  of  my 
memory." 

She  stood  watching  his  examination  of  the  label  of 
the  bottle,  and  his  test  of  its  contents  from  a  touch  of 
the  inner  tip  of  the  cork  on  his  tongue.  "  A  spoon  ? 
I've  got  one  here  in  aunty's  medicine  chest.  It  would 
have  cost  its  weight  in  silver  to  get  one  from  the  din- 


\N      IMITKATIVK     DUTY.  29 

ing-room.  And  there  happens  to  be  ice-water,  if  you 
have  to  give  it  in  water.  Don't  say  water  without 
ice ! " 

"  Ice-water  will  do,"  said  Olney.  He  began  to 
drop  the  medicine  from  the  bottle  into  the  spoon, 
which  he  then  poured  into  the  glass  of  water  she 
brought  him.  "I  believe,"  he  said,  stirring  it,  "that 
if  the  negroes  ever  have  their  turn  —  and  if  the  mc«  k 
are  to  inherit  the  earth  they  must  come  to  it  —  we 
shall  have  a  civilization  of  such  sweetness  and  good 
will  as  the  world  has  never  known  yet.  Perhaps  we 
shall  have  to  wait  their  turn  for  any  real  Christian 
civilization." 

"You  remember  the  black  Madonna  at  Florence, 
that  used  to  be  so  popular?  AVhat  Madonna  was  it? 
I  suppose  they  will  revere  her,  when  they  get  to  be  all 
Catholics.  Were  you  in  any  of  their  churches  to-day? 
You  were  saying  —  "  Miss  Aldgate  put  out  her  hand 
for  the  glass. 

••  No ;  I  never  was  in  a  colored  church  in  my  life," 
said  Olney.  "  I'm  critical,  not  constructive,  in  my 
humanity.  It's  easier." 

He  went  himself  with  the  glass  to  Mrs.  Meredith. 
She  seemed  not  to  have  been  paying  any  attention  to 
his  talk  with  her  niece.  She  lifted  herself  up  at  his 
approach,  and  took  the  glass  from  him. 

"Shall  I  drink  it  all?" 

"Yes  —  you  can  take  all  of  it." 

She  quaffed  it  at  one  nervous  gulp,  and  Hung  her 
head  heavily  down  again.  "I  don't  believe  it  will 
make  me  sleep,"  she  said. 


30  AX    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

Olney  smiled.  "  Well,  fortunately,  this  kind  doesn't 
require  the  co-operation  of  the  patient.  It  will  make 
you  sleep,  I  think.  You  may  try  keeping  awake,  if 
you  like." 

She  opened  her  eyes  with  a  flash.     "  Is  it  chloral  ?  " 

"  No,  it  isn't  chloral." 

"  Tell  me  the  truth  !  "  She  laid  a  convulsive  clutch 
upon  his  wrist,  as  he  sat  fronting  her  and  curiously 
watching  her.  "  I  will  not  let  you  justify  yourself  by 
that  code  of  yours  which  lets  the  doctor  cheat  his  pa 
tient!  If  you  have  been  giving  me  some  form  of 
chloral  —  " 

"I  haven't  been  giving  you  any  form  of  chloral," 
said  Olney,  beginning  to  smile. 

"  Then  you  are  trying  to  hypnotize  me  !  " 

Olney  burst  into  a  laugh.  "  You  certainly  need 
sleep,  Mrs.  Meredith !  I'll  look  in  during  the  fore 
noon,  about  the  time  you  ought  to  wake,  and  de- 
hypnotize  you."  He  moved  toward  the  door;  but 
before  he  reached  it  he  stopped  and  said,  seriously : 
"  I  don't  know  of  any  code  that  would  allow  me  to 
cheat  you,  against  your  will.  I  don't  believe  any  doc 
tor  is  justified  in  doing  that.  Unless  he  has  some 
sign,  some  petition  for  deception,  from  the  patient, 
you  can  depend  upon  it  that  he  finds  the  truth  the 
best  thing." 

"  It's  the  only  thing  —  at  all  times  —  in  life  and 
death !  "  cried  Mrs.  Meredith,  perfervidly.  "  If  I  were 
dying,  I  should  wish  to  know  it !  " 

"And  I  shouldn't  wish  to  know  it !  "  said  Miss  Aid- 


AX    mi'KKATIYK    1H  'TV.  31 

-ait-.     ••  I  think  there  are  cases  when  the  truth  would 
be  cruel  —  positively  wicked !  Don't  you,  Dr.  Gluey  ?  " 
••  Well,"  said  Olney,  preparing  to  escape  through 
the  door  which  lie  had  set  open,  "  I  couldn't  honestly 
>ay  that  I   think  either  of  us  is  in  immediate  danger. 
Good-night !  " 
3 


V. 

OLNEY  did  not  go  to  see  Mrs.  Meredith  until  noon, 
the  next  day.  lie  thought  that  if  she  were  worse,  or 
no  better,  she  would  send  for  him,  and  that  if  she  did 
not  send,  he  might  very  well  delay  seeing  her.  He 
found  her  alone.  Miss  Aldgate,  she  said,  had  gone  to 
drive  with  their  friends  at  the  Vendome,  and  was  to 
lunch  with  them.  Olney  bore  her  absence  as  politely 
as  he  could,  and  hoped  Mrs,  Meredith  had  slept. 

"  Yes,  I  slept,"  she  said,  with  a  kind  of  suppressed 
sigh,  "  but  I'm  not  sure  that  I'm  very  much  the  better 
for  it." 

"  I'm  sure  you  are,"  said  Olney,  with  resolute  cheer 
fulness;  and  he  began  to  go  through  with  the  usual 
touching  of  the  pulse,  and  looking  at  the  tongue,  and 
the  questions  that  accompany  this  business. 

Mrs.  Meredith  broke  abruptly  away  from  it  all. 
"  It's  useless  for  us  to  go  on  !  I've  no  doubt  you  can 
drug  me  to  sleep  whenever  you  will.  But  if  I'm  to 
wake  up,  when  I  wake,  to  the  trouble  that's  on  my 
mind,  the  sleep  will  do  me  no  good." 

She  looked  wistfully  at  him,  as  if  she  longed  to  have 
him  ask  her  what  the  matter  was  ;  but  Olney  did  not 
feel  authorized  to  do  this.  He  had  known,  almost 
from  the  first  moment  he  met  Mrs.  Meredith,  the  night 


AN    1MPKRATIVE    DUTY.  33 

before,  that  she  had  something  on  her  mind,  or  be 
lieved  so,  and  that  if  she  could  tell  him  of  her  trouble, 
she  would  probably  need  no  medieine ;  but  he  had  to 
proceed,  as  the  physician  often  must,  upon  the  theory 
that  only  her  body  was  out  of  order,  and  try  to  quiet 
her  spirit  through  her  nerves,  when  the  true  way  was 
from  the  other  direction.  It  went  through  his  mind 
that  it  might  be  well  for  the  nervous  specialist  here 
after  to  combine  the  functions  of  the  priest  and  the 
leech,  especially  in  the  case  of  nervous  ladies,  and  con 
fess  his  patients  before  he  began  to  prescribe  for  them. 
But  he  could  not  help  feeling  glad  that  things  had 
not  come  to  this  millennial  pass ;  for  he  did  not  at  all 
wish  to  know  what  Mrs.  Meredith  had  on  her  mind. 
So  much  impression  of  her  character  had  been  left 
from  their  different  meetings  in  Florence  that  he  had 
already  theorized  her  as  one  of  those  women,  com 
moner  amongst  us  than  any  other  people,  perhaps,  to 
whom  life,  in  spite  of  all  experience,  remains  a  sealed 
book,  and  who  are  always  trying  to  unlock  its  myste 
ries  with  the  keys  furnished  them  by  fiction.  They 
judge  the  world  by  the  novels  they  have  read,  and 
their  acquaintance  iii  the  flesh  by  characters  in  stories, 
instead  of  judging  these  by  the  real  people  they  have 
met,  and  more  or  less  lived  with.  Such  women  get  a 
tone  of  mind  that  is  very  tiresome  to  every  one  but 
other  women  like  them,  and  that  is  peculiarly  repul 
sive  to  such  men  as  Olney,  or  if  not  repulsive,  then 
very  ridiculous.  In  Mrs.  Meredith's  case  he  did  not 
so  much  accuse  her  of  wishing  to  pose  as  a  character 


34  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

with  a  problem  to  work  out ;  there  was  nothing  histri 
onic  about  the  poor  woman ;  but  he  fancied  her  hope 
lessly  muddled  as  to  her  plain,  every-day  obligations, 
by  a  morbid  sympathy  with  the  duty-ridden  creatures 
of  the  novelist's  brain.  He  remembered  from  that 
first  talk  of  the  winter  before  —  it  had  been  a  long 
talk,  an  exhaustive  talk,  covering  many  cases  of  con 
science  in  fiction  besides  that  of  Tito  Malema — that 
she  had  shown  herself  incapable  of  sinking  the  sense 
of  obligation  in  the  sense  of  responsibility,  and  that 
she  apparently  conceived  of  what  she  called  living  up 
to  the  truth  as  something  that  might  be  done  singly ; 
that  right  affected  her  as  a  body  of  positive  color, 
sharply  distinguished  from  wrong,  and  not  shading 
into  and  out  of  it  by  gradations  of  tint,  as  we  find  it 
doing  in  reality.  Such  a  woman,  he  had  vaguely  re 
flected,  when  he  came  to  sum  up  his  impressions,  would 
be  capable  of  an  atrocious  cruelty  in  speaking  or  act 
ing  the  truth,  and  would  consider  herself  an  exemplary 
person  for  having  done  her  duty  at  any  cost  of  suffer 
ing  to  herself  and  others.  But  she  wrould  exaggerate 
as  well  as  idealize,  and  he  tried  to  find  comfort  now  in 
thinking  that  what  she  had  on  her  mind  was  very 
likely  a  thing  of  bulk  out  of  all  proportion  to  its 
weight.  Very  likely  it  was  something  with  reference 
to  her  niece  ;  some  waywardness  of  affection  or  am 
bition  in  the  girl.  She  might  be  wanting  to  study 
medicine,  or  law,  or  divinity ;  perhaps  she  wanted  to 
go  on  the  stage.  More  probably,  it  was  a  question  of 
whom  she  should  marry,  and  Mrs.  Meredith  was 


AN     IMl'l.U  A  I  I\  i:     1UTY.  35 

wrestling  with  the  problem  of  how  far  in  this  age  of 
intense  individuali/ation  a  girl's  inclinations  might  be 
forced  for  her  good,  and  how  fur  let  go  for  her  evil. 
Such  a  problem  would  be  quite  enough  to  destroy  Mrs. 
Meredith's  peace,  if  that  was  what  she  had  on  her 
mind  ;  and  ( Hnev  could  not  help  relating  his  conjec 
ture  to  these  people  at  the  Vendome,  whom  Miss  Aid- 
gate  had  gone  to  drive  with  and  lunch  with  to-day, 
at'ter  having  been  to  drive  with  them  yesterday.  Those 
people  in  turn  lie  related  to  the  young  clergyman  she 
had  spent  the  evening  in  talking  with  in  Florence, 
when  he  was  himself  only  partially  engaged  in  explor 
ing  her  aunt's  conscience',  lie  wondered  whether  Mr>. 
Meredith  favored  or  opposed  the  young  clergyman, 
and  what  was  just  the  form  of  the  trouble  that  was  on 
her  mind,  but  still  without  the  intention  to  inquire  it 
out. 

••  Well,  perhaps,"  he  suggested,  half  jocosely,  "the 
trouble  will  disappear  when  you've  had  sleep  enough." 

"You  know  very  well/'  she  answered,  "that  it 
u,,n't —  that  what  you  say  is  simply  impossible.  1 
remember  some  things  you  said  that  night  when  \\  «• 
talked  so  long  together,  and  I  know  that  you  are  in 
clined  to  confound  the  moral  and  the  physical,  as  all 
doctors  are." 

Olney  would  have  liked  to  say,  t%  I  wish,  my  dear 
lady,  you  wouldn't  confound  the  >am-  and  insane  in 
the  way  you  do."  But  he  silently  submitted,  and  let 
her  go  on. 

"That  made  me  di.>like  you  ;  but  1  can't  say  it  made 


36  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

me  distrust  you.  I  think  that  if  you  had  been  an  un 
truthful  person  you  would  have  concealed  your  point 
of  view  from  me." 

Olney  could  not  say  he  might  not  have  thought  it 
worth  while  to  do  that.  On  the  contrary,  he  had  a 
sort  of  compassion  for  the  lofty  superiority  of  a  woman 
who  so  obviously  felt  her  dependence  upon  him,  and 
was  arming  herself  in  all  her  pride  for  her  abasement 
before  him.  He  knew  that  she  was  longing  to  tell 
him  what  was  on  her  mind,  and  would  probably  not 
end  till  she  had  done  it.  lie  did  not  feel  that  he  had 
the  right  to  prevent  her  doing  that,  and  he  smiled  pas 
sively  in  saying,  "  I  couldn't  advise  you  to  trust  me  too 
far." 

u  I  must  trust  some  one  too  far,"  she  said,  u  and  I 
have  literally  no  one  but  you."  The  tears  came  into 
her  eyes,  and  Olney,  who  knew  very  well  how  easily 
the  tears  come  into  women's  eyes,  was  broken  up  by 
the  sight. 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Meredith,  I  should  be  very  glad  to 
be  trusted  even  too  far,  if  I  could  really  be  of  use  to 
you." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  that  you  can,"  she  said.  After 
a  pause  she  added,  abruptly,  "  Do  you  believe  in 
heredity  ?  " 

Olney  felt  inclined  to  laugh.  "  Well,  that's  rather 
a  spacious  question,  Mrs.  Meredith.  What  do  you 
mean  by  heredity  ?  " 

"  You  know  !  The  persistence  of  ancestral  traits  ; 
the  transmission  of  character  and  tendency ;  the 


AN    IMl'I.U.VTIVl.     IMTY.  37 

reappearance  of  -types  after  several  generations ; 
tin-  —  " 

She  stopped,  anil  Olney  knew  that  he  had  got  at 
the  body  of  her  anxiety,  though  she  had  not  yet  re 
vealed  its  \vry  features.  He  determined  to  deal  with 
the  matter  a-  reassuringly  as  he  could  in  the  dark.  He 
smiled  in  answering,  ';  Heredity  is  a  good  deal  like 
the  germ  theory.  There's  a  large  amount  of  truth  in 
it,  no  doubt;  but  it's  truth  in  a  state  of  solution,  and 
nobody  knows  just  how  much  of  it  there  is.  Perhaps 
we  shall  never  know.  As  for  those  cases  of  atavism 
—  for  I  suppose  that's  what  you  mean  —  " 

"Yes,  yes!     Atavism?     That  is  the  word." 

'•  They're  not  so  very  common,  and  they're  not  so 
very  well  ascertained.  You  find  them  mentioned  in 
the  books,  but  vaguely,  and  on  a  kind  of  hearsay,  with 
out  the  names  of  persons  and  places ;  it's  a  notion  that 
some  writers  rather  like  to  toy  with  ;  but  when  you 
come  to  boil  it  down,  as  the  newspapers  say,  there 
isn't  a  great  deal  of  absolute  fact  there.  Take  the  re- 
version  to  the  inferior  race  type  in  the  child  of  parents 
of  mixed  blood  —  sav  a  white  with  a  mulatto  or  quad 
roon  —  " 

"  Yes  !  "  said  Mrs.  Meredith,  with  eagerness. 

"  Why,  it's  very  effective  as  a  bit  of  drama.  But  it 
must  be  very  rare  —  very  rare  indeed.  You  hear  of 
instances  in  which  the  parent  of  mixed  race  could  not 
be  known  from  a  white  person,  and  yet  the  child  re 
vert-  to  the  iK-iM-o  type  in  color  and  feature  and  char- 
ueter.  1  should  doubt  it  very  much." 


88  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

Mrs.  Meredith  cried  out  as  if  he  had  questioned  holy 
writ.  "  You  should  doubt  it !  Why  should  you  doubt 
it,  Dr.  Olney  ? "  Yet  he  perceived  that  for  some 
reason  she  wished  him  to  reaffirm  his  doubt. 

"  Because  the  chances  are  so  enormously  against  it. 
The  natural  tendency  is  all  the  other  way,  to  the  per 
manent  effacement  of  the  inferior  type.  The  child  of 
a  white  and  an  octoroon  is  a  sixteenth  blood ;  and  the 
child  of  that  child  and  a  white  is  a  thirty-second  blood. 
The  chances  of  atavism,  or  reversion  to  the  black  great- 
great-great-grandfather  are  so  remote  that  they  may  be 
said  hardly  to  exist  at  all.  They  are  outside  of  the 
probabilities,  and  only  on  the  verge  of  the  possibilities. 
But  it's  so  thrilling  to  consider  such  a  possibility  that 
people  like  to  consider  it.  Fancy  is  as  much  commit 
ted  to  it  as  prejudice  is  ;  but  it  hasn't  so  much  excuse, 
for  prejudice  is  mostly  ignorant,  and  fancy  mostly  edu 
cated,  or  half-educated."  Olney  folded  one  leg  com 
fortably  across  the  other,  and  went  on,  with  a  musing 
smile.  "  I've  been  thinking  about  all  this  a  good  deal 
within  the  past  two  days  —  or  since  I  got  back  to  Bos 
ton.  I've  been  more  and  more  struck  with  the  fact 
that  sooner  or  later  our  race  must  absorb  the  colored 
race ;  and  I  believe  that  it  will  obliterate  not  only  its 
color,  but  its  qualities.  The  tame  man,  the  civilized 
man,  is  stronger  than  the  wild  man  ;  and  I  believe  that 
in  those  cases  within  any  one  race  where  there  are 
very  strong  ancestral  proclivities  on  one  side  espe 
cially  toward  evil,  they  will  die  out  before  the  good 
tendencies  011  the  other  side,  for  much  the  same 


AN  iMi-i i;  A  i  ivi:   HTTY.  39 

reason,  iliat  is,  because  vice  is  savage  :ui<l  virtue  is 
civilized." 

Mrs.  Meredith  listened  intently,  but  at  last,  u  I  wish 
I  could  believe  what  you  say,"  she  sighed,  heavily. 
"  lint  I  don't  know  that  that  would  relieve  me  of  the 
duty  before  me,"  >he  added,  after  a  moment's  thought. 
"  Dr.  Olney,  there  is  something  that  I  need  very  inueli 
to  speak  about  —  something  that  must  be  done  —  that 
my  health  dejieiids  upon  —  I  shall  never  get  well  un 
less—" 

"  If  there  is  anything  you  wish  to  say  concerning 
your  health,  Mrs.  Meredith,"  he  answered,  seriously, 
''it's  of  course  my  duty  to  hear  it.'' 

lie  sat  prepared  to  listen,  but  she  apparently  did  not 
know  how  to  begin,  and  after  several  gasps  she  was 
silent.  Then,  ••  No,  I  can't  tell  you!  "  she  broke  out. 

He  rose.  "Are  you  to  be  some  time  in  Boston?" 
he  asked,  to  relieve  the  embarrassment  of  the  situa 
tion. 

••  1  don't  know.     Y«->.  1  >uppose  a  week  or  two." 

'•  I  f  I  can  be  of  use  to  you  in  any  way,  I  shall  be 
glad  to  have  you  send  for  me." 

lie  turned  to  the  door,  but  as  he  put  his  hand  on 
the  knob  she  called  out :  "  No  !  Don't  go  !  Sit  down! 
I  must  speak !  You  remember,"  she  hurried  on,  be 
fore  he  could  resume  his  chair,  "a  voting  gentleman 
who  talked  with  my  niece  that  night  at  Professor 
Garofalo's  —  a  Mr.  Bloomingdale  ?  " 

"  The  young  minister  ':  " 

"  Yes." 


40  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

"  I  remember  him  very  well,  though  I  don't  think  ? 
spoke  with  him." 

Olney  stared  at  Mrs  Meredith,  wondering  what  this 
Rev.  Mr.  Bloomingdale  had  to  do  with  the  matter- 
whatever  the  matter  might  be. 

"  It  is  his  mother  and  sisters  that  my  niece  is  lunch 
ing  with,"  she  said,  with  an  air  of  explaining.  "  lie 
is  expected  on  the  next  steamer,  and  then  —  then  I 
must  speak !  It  can't  go  on,  so.  There  must  be  a 
clear  and  perfect  understanding.  Dr.  Olney,"  she 
continued,  with  a  glance  at  his  face,  which  he  felt 
growing  more  and  more  bewildered  under  the  influence 
of  her  words,  "  Mr.  Bloomingdale  is  very  much  at 
tached  to  my  niece.  He  —  he  has  offered  himself ;  he 
offered  himself  in  Liverpool  ;  and  I  insisted  that 
Rlioda  should  not  give  him  a  decisive  answer  then  — 
that  she  should  take  time  to  think  it  over.  I  wished 
to  gain  time  myself." 

"  Yes,"  said  Olney,  because  she  seemed  to  expect 
him  to  say  something. 

"I  wished  to  gain  time  and  I  wished  to  gain 
strength,  but  I  have  lost  botli ;  and  the  affair  has 
grown  more  difficult  and  complicated.  Mr.  Blooming- 
dale's  family  are  very  fond  of  Rhoda ;  they  are  aware 
of  his  attachment  —  they  were  in  Florence  at  the 
time  you  were,  and  they  came  home  without  him  a  few 
months  ago,  because  lie  wished  to  stay  on  in  the  hope 
of  winning  her  —  and  they  are  showing  her  every  at 
tention  ;  and  she  does  not  see  how  her  being  with 
them  complicates  everything.  Of  course  they  flatter 


AN    IMl'KUATIVE    DUTY.  41 

her,  and  she's  very  headstrong,  like;  all  young  girls, 
and  I'm  afraid  >he's  committing  herself  —  " 

"Do  they  live  at  the  Vendoinr ':  "  Olney  asked, 
with  a  certain  distaste  for  them,  and  he  was  conscious 
of  resenting  their  attentions  to  Miss  Aldgate  as  push 
ing  and  vulgar  under  the  circumstances,  though  he  had 
no  right  to  do  so. 

••  No.  They  are  just  waiting  there  for  him.  They 
ire  Ni-w  York  State  people  —  the  western  part.  They 
are  very  rich  ;  the  mother  is  a  widow,  and  they  are 
going  to  live  in  Ohio,  where  Mr.  Bloomingdale.  has  a 
call.  They  are  kind,  good  people  —  very  kind  :  and 
I  feel  that  Rhoda  is  abusing  their  kindness  by  being 
so  much  with  them  before  she  has  positively  accepted 
him;  and  I  can't  let  her  do  that  until  everything  is 
known.  She  refund  him  when  he  offered  himself 
first  in  Florence  —  I've  always  thought  she  had  some 
other  fancy  —  but  at  Liverpool,  where  he  renewed  his 
offer  just  before  we  sailed,  she  was  inclined  to  accept 
him;  I  suppose  her  fanev  had  passed.  As  I  sav,  I 
in-i-ted  that  she  should  take  at  h-a-t  a  we.-k  to  con 
sider  it,  and  that  he  should  change  his  passage  from 
our  steamer  to  the  next.  I  had  no  idea  of  find  ing 
his  family  in  Boston,  but  perhaps  in  the  confusion  he 
forgot  to  tell  us.  They  found  our  names  in  the  pas- 
sengt-r  li>t,  and  they  came  to  see  us  directly  an. -r 
lunch,  yesterday.  If  the  match  is  broken  off  now, 
after —  " 

Mrs.  Meredith  stopped  in  a  sort  of  despair,  which 
Olney  shared  with  her  as  far  as  concerned  the  blind 


42  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

alley  in  which  he  found  himself.  He  had  not  the 
least  notion  of  the  way  out,  and  he  could  only  wait 
her  motion. 

"  I  don't  see,"  she  resumed,  "  how  my  niece  can 
help  accepting  him  if  she  goes  on  at  this  rate  with  his 
family,  and  I  don't  know  how  to  stop  her  without 
telling  her  the  worst  at  once.  I'm  afraid  she  has  got 
her  heart  set  on  him."  Mrs.  Meredith  paused  again, 
and  then  went  on.  "  I  have  shrunk  from  speaking 
because  I  know  that  the  poor  young  man's  happiness, 
as  well  as  Rhoda's,  is  involved,  and  the  peace  and  self- 
respect  of  his  family.  There  have  been  times  when  I 
have  almost  felt  that  if  there  were  no  danger  of  t'he 
facts  ever  coming  to  light,  I  could  make  up  my  mind  to 
die,  as  I  have  lived,  in  a  lie.  But  now  I  know  I  can 
not  ;  it  is  my  duty  to  speak  out ;  and  the  marriage 
must  not  take  place  unless  everything  is  known.  It 
will  kill  her.  But  it  must  be  done  !  Those  ancestral 
traits,  those  tendencies,  may  die  out,  but  I  can't  let 
any  one  take  the  risk  of  their  recurrence  unknowingly. 
He  must  know  who  and  what  she  is  as  fully  as  I  do : 
her  origin,  her  — " 

Olney  believed  that  he  began  to  understand.  There 
was  some  stain  upon  that  poor  child's  birth.  She  was 
probably  not  related  to  Mrs.  Meredith  at  all ;  she  was 
a  foundling  ;  or  she  was  the  daughter  of  some  man  or 
woman  whose  vices  or  crimes  might  find  her  out  with 
their  shame  if  not  their  propensity  some  day.  What 
ever  sinister  tendency  she  was  heiress  to,  or  whatever 
ancestral  infamy,  it  could  only  be  matter  of  conjecture, 


AN     IMri.KATIVK     IM    IV.  1  •"> 

not  inquiry,  with  Olin-y:  l>ut  he  imagined  the  worst 
from  hints  tliat  Mrs.  Meredith  had  thrown  out,  and 
attributed  litTtoa  family  of  criminals,  such  as  has  here 
and  tlicrc  found  its  way  into  the  iiguros  of  the  stati>- 
ticians.  lie  was  not  shocked;  he  was  interested  by 
the  fact  ;  and  he  did  not  find  Miss  Aldgatr  at  all  less 
charming  and  beautiful  in  the  conclusion  he  jumped  to 
than  he  had  found  her  before.  lie  said  to  himself 
that  if  the  case  were  his,  as  it  was  that  young  minis 
ter's,  there  could  be  no  question  in  it,  except  the  ques 
tion  of  her  willingness  to  marry  him.  He  said  this 
from  the  safe  vantage  of  the  disinterested  witness, 
and  with  the  easy  decision  of  one  who  need  not  act 
upon  his  decision. 


VI. 

IN  liis  instantaneous  mental  processes,  Olney  kept 
his  attention  fixed  upon  Mrs.  Meredith,  and  he  was 
aware  of  her  gasping  out : 

"  My  nrece  is  of  negro  descent." 

Olney  recoiled  from  the  words,  in  a  turmoil  of  emo 
tion  for  which  there  is  no  term  but  disgust.  His  dis 
gust  was  profound  and  pervasive,  and  it  did  not  fail, 
first  of  all,  to  involve  the  poor  child  herself.  He  found 
himself  personally  disliking  the  notion  of  her  having 
negro  blood  in  her  veins  ;  before  he  felt  pity  he  felt 
repulsion ;  his  own  race  instinct  expressed  itself  in  a 
merciless  rejection  of  her  beauty,  her  innocence,  her 
helplessness  because  of  her  race.  The  impulse  had  to 
have  its  course;  and  then  he  mastered  it,  with  an 
abiding  compassion,  and  a  sort  of  tender  indigna 
tion.  He  felt  that  it  was  atrocious  for  this  old  woman 
to  have  allowed  her  hypochondriacal  anxiety  to  dabble 
with  the  mysteries  of  the  young  girl's  future  in  that 
way,  and  he  resented  having  been  trapped  into  consid 
ering  her  detestable  question.  His  feeling  was  unsci 
entific  ;  but  he  could  not  at  once  detach  himself  from 
the  purely  social  relation  which  he  had  hitherto  held 
toward  Miss  Aldgate.  The  professional  view  which 
he  was  invited  to  take  seemed  to  have  lost  all  dignity, 


AN    IMI'KRATIYK    1HTY.  !•"> 

to  be  impertinent,  cruel,  squalid,  ami  to  involve  the 
abdication  of  certain  sentiments,  conventions,  which  he 
was  unwilling  to  part  with,  at  least  in  her  case. 
Sensibilities  which  ought  not  to  have  survived  his 
scientific  training  and  ambition  were  wounded  to  re 
bellion  in  him ;  he  perceived  as  never  before  that 
then-  was  an  inherent  outrage  in  the  submission  of 
such  questions  to  one  of  the  opposite  sex  ;  there  should 
be  women  to  deal  with  them. 

"  How  —  negro  descent  ?  "  he  asked,  stupidly,  from 
the  whirl  of  these  thoughts. 

"  I  will  try  to  tell  you,"  said  Mrs.  Meredith.  "  And 
some  things  you  said  about  that  —  race  —  those 
w  ret  died  beings,  last  night —  You  were  sincere  in 
what  you  said  ?  "  she  demanded  of  the  kind  of  change 
that  came  into  his  face. 

"Sincere?  Yes,"  said  Olney,  thinking  how  far 
from  any  concrete  significance  he  had  supposed  his 
words  to  have  for  his  listeners  when  he  spoke  them. 
He  added,  "  I  do  abhor  the  cruel  stupidity  that  makes 
any  race  treat  another  as  outcast.  But  I  never 
dreamed  —  " 

Mrs.  Meredith  broke  in  upon  him,  saying : 

"  It  is  almost  the  only  consolation  I  have  in  think 
ing  she  is  rightfully  and  lawfully  'my  niece,  to  know 
that  in  the  course  I  must  take  now,  I  shall  not  be 
seeming  to  make  her  an  outcast.  I  honored  my 
brother  for  honoring  her  mother,  and  giving  her  his 
name  when  there  was  no  need  of  his  doing  it  He  did 
not  consult  me,  and  I  did  not  know  it  till  afterward  ; 


46  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

but  I  should  have  been  the  first  to  urge  it,  when  it 
came  to  a  question  of  marriage  or  —  anything  else. 
For  one  of  our  family  there  could  be  no  such  question ; 
there  was  none  for  him. 

"  He  went  South  shortly  after  the  war,  as  so  many 
Northern  men  did,  intending  to  make  his  home  there  ; 
his  health  was  delicate,  and  his  only  hope  of  strength 
and  usefulness,  if  not  of  life,  was  in  a  milder  climate. 
He  outlived  the  distrust  that  the  Southerners  had  for 
all  Northern  men  in  those  days,  and  was  establishing 
himself  in  a  very  good  practice  at  New  Orleans  —  1 
forgot  to  say  he  was  a  physician  —  when  he  met 
Rhoda's  mother.  I  needn't  go  over  the  details  ;  she 
was  an  octoroon,  the  daughter  and  the  granddaughter 
of  women  who  had  never  hoped  for  marriage  with  the 
white  men  who  fell  in  love  with  them ;  but  she  had 
been  educated  by  her  father  —  he  was  a  Creole,  and 
she  was  educated  in  a  Northern  convent  —  and  I 
have  no  doubt  she  was  an  accomplished  and'  beautiful 
girl.  I  never  saw  her.  My  brother  met  her  in  her 
father's  house,  almost  beside  her  father's  death-bed ; 
but  even  if  he  had  met  her  in  her  mother's  house,  on 
her  mother's  level,  it  would  not  have  been  possible 
for  him  to  do  otherwise  than  as  he  did.  He  thought 
at  first  of  keeping  the  marriage  secret,  and  of  going  on 
as  before,  until  he  could  afford  to  own  it  and  take  all 
the  consequences ;  but  he  decided  against  this,  and  I 
was  always  glad  that  he  did.  They  were  married, 
after  her  father's  death ;  and  then  my  brother's  ruin 
began.  He  lost  his  practice  in  the  families  where  he 


AN    IMTT.i;  \  I  I\  I      IM'TT.  47 

had  -ni  a  footing,  among  the  well-to-do  and  respectable 
I>e<>j>le  whom  IK-  liad  made  his  t'riends  ;  and  though  he 
would  have  been  willing  to  go  on  among  a  poorer 
da-s  who  could  pay  less,  it  was  useless.  lie  had  to 
go  away  ;  and  for  five  or  six  years  he  drifted  about 
from  one  plan-  to  another,  trying  to  gain  a  hold  here 
and  there,  and  failing  everywhere.  Sooner  or  later 
lii>  Mory  followed  him. 

"I  don't  Maine  the  Southern  people;  I'm  not  sure 
it  would  have  been  better  in  the  North.  If  it  had 
been  known  who  his  wife  was,  she  would  not  have 
been  received  socially  here  any  more  than  she  w.t^ 
there  ;  and  I  doubt  if  it  would  not  have  affected  my 
brother's  professional  standing  in  much  the  same  way. 
People  don't  like  to  think  there  is  anything  strange 
about  their  doctor  ;  they  must  make  a  confidant,  they 
must  make  a  familiar  of  him  ;  and  if  there  is  anything 
peculiar,  unusual —  My  husband  was  a  very  good 
man,  one  of  the  best  men  who  ever  lived,  and  he  ap 
proved  of  my  brother's  marriage  in  the  abstract  as 
much  as  I  did  ;  but  even  he  never  liked  to  think  whom 
he  had  married.  He  was  always  afraid  it  wrould  come 
out  among  our  friends,  somehow,  and  it  would  be 
known  that  his  sister-in-law  was  — 

••  At  last  the  poor  young  creature  died,  and  my 
brother  came  North  with  his  little  girl.  "We  hoped 
that  then  he  might  begin  again,  and  make  a  new  start 
in  life.  But  it  was  too  late.  He  was  a  mere  wreck 
physically,  and  he  died  too  within  the  year.  And 
then  it  became  a  question  what  we  should  do  with  the 


48  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

child.  As  long  as  she  was  so  merely  a  child,  it  was 
comparatively  simple.  We  had  no  children  of  our 
own,  and  when  my  brother  died  in  another  part  of  the 
State  —  we  were  living  in  New  York  then,  and  he  had 
gone  up  into  the  Adirondack  region  in  the  hope  of 
getting  better  —  it  was  natural  that  we  should  take 
the  little  one  home.  In  a  place  like  New  York,  noth 
ing  is  known  unless  you  make  it  known,  and  Rhoda 
was  brought  up  in  our  house,  without  any  conjecture 
or  curiosity  from  people  outside  ;  she  was  my  brother's 
orphan,  and  nobody  knew  or  cared  who  my  brother 
was ;  she  had  teachers  and  she  had  schools  like  any 
other  child,  and  she  had  the  companionships  and  the 
social  advantages  which  our  own  station  and  money 
could  command. 

"  At  first  my  husband  and  I  thought  of  letting  her 
think  herself  our  child ;  but  that  would  have  involved 
a  deceit  which  we  were  unwilling  to  practise  ;  besides, 
it  was  not  necessary,  and  it  would  have  been  great 
pain  for  her  afterwards.  We  decided  to  tell  her  the 
truth  when  the  time  came,  and  never  anything  but 
the  truth,  at  any  time.  We  never  deceived  her,  but 
we  let  her  deceive  herself.  When  she  came  to  the 
age  when  children  begin  to  ask  about  themselves,  we 
told  her  that  her  father  had  married  in  the  South,  and 
that  her  mother,  whom  she  did  not  remember,  was  of 
French  descent ;  but  we  did  not  know  of  her  family. 
This  was  all  true  ;  but  still  it  was  not  the  truth ;  we 
knew  that  well  enough,  but  we  promised  ourselves  that 
when  the  time  came  we  would  tell  her  the  truth. 


AN     IM1T.KATIVK    DUTY.  49 

"She  made  up  little  romances  about  her  mother, 
which  she-  came  to  believe  in  as  facts,  with  our  suffer 
ance.  I  should  now  call  it  our  connivance." 

Mrs.  Meredith  appealed  to  Olney  with  a  glance, 
and  he  said,  in  the  first  sympathy  he  had  felt  for  her, 
"It  was  a  ditlicult  position." 

"She  easily  satisfied  herself  —  it's  astonishing  how 
little  curiosity  children  have  about  all  the  mystery  of 
their  coming  here  —  and  as  she  had  instinctively  in 
ferred  something  strange  or  unusual  about  her 
mother's  family,  she  decided  that  she  had  married 
against  her  grandfather's  wishes.  We  left  her  that 
illusion,  too;  it  seemed  so  easy  to  leave  things  then! 
It  wa>  when  she  ceased  to  be  a  child,  and  we  realized 
more  and  more  how  her  life  might  any  time  involve 
some  other  life,  that  the  question  became  a  constant 
pressure  upon  us.  Neither  my  husband  or  myself  ever 
justified  the  concealment  we  lived  in  concerning  her. 
We  often  talked  of  it,  and  how  it  must  come  to  an  end. 
IJut  we  were  very  much  attached  to  her,  and  we  put 
off  thinking  definitely  about  the  duty  before  us  as  long 
as  we  could.  Sometimes  it  seemed  to  us  that  we 
ought  to  tell  the  child  just  who  and  what  she  was,  but 
we  IK -ver  had  the  courage;  she  does  not  know  to  this 
day.  What  do  you  think  our  duty  to  her  really 
was  ?  " 

"Your  duty?"   Qlney  echoed,   vaguely.     A  little 
while  ago  he  would  have  answered  instantly  that  they 
had  no  duty  but  to  keep  her    in    ignorance   as   lon_ 
she  lived ;    but  now  he   could  not  honestly  do  this. 


50  AN   IMPERATIVE   DUTY. 

The  only  thing  that  he  could  honestly  do  was  to  say, 
"  I  don't  know,"  and  this  was  what  he  said. 

Mrs.  Meredith  resumed :  "  My  husband  had  gone 
out  of  business,  and  there  was  nothing  to  keep  us  at 
home.  But  we  had  nothing  definitely  in  view  when 
we  went  abroad,  or  at  least  nothing  explicitly  in  view. 
We  said  that  we  were  going  abroad  for  Rhoda's  edu 
cation  ;  but  I  think  that  in  my  husband's  heart,  as 
well  as  in  mine,  there  was  the  hope  that  something 
might  happen  to  solve  the  difficulty  ;  we  had  no  plan 
for  solving  it.  I  thought,  at  any  rate,  if  he  did  not, 
that  in  Europe  there  would  be  less  unhappiness  in 
store  for  her  than  here.  I  knew  that  in  Europe, 
especially  on  the  Continent,  there  was  little  or  none 
of  that  race  prejudice  which  we  have,  and  I  thought 
—  I  imagined  —  I  should  find  it  easier  to  tell  Rhoda 
the  truth,  if  I  could  tell  her  at  the  same  time  that  it 
made  no  difference  to  the  man  she  was  to  marry." 

Olney  understood  ;  and  he  was  rather  restive  under 
Mrs.  Meredith's  apparent  helplessness  to  leave  any 
thing  to  his  imagination. 

"  I  hoped  it  might  be  some  Italian  —  from  the  first 
I  liked  the  Italians  the  best.  We  lived  a  great  deal 
in  Italy,  at  Rome  and  Naples,  at  Florence,  at  Venice, 
even  at  Milan  ;  and  everywhere  we  tried  to  avoid 
Americans.  We  went  into  Italian  society  almost  en 
tirely. 

"  But  it  seemed  a  perfect  fatality.  Rhoda  was 
always  homesick  for  America,  and  always  eager  to 
meet  Americans.  She  refused  all  the  offers  that  were 


AN   i.Mi'i.KAi  i\  i:   1-1  n.  51 

made  for  her  — and  they  begun  to  come,  even  before 
Bhe  was  fairly  in  >ociety  —  ami  declared  that  >he  would 
never  marry  any  one  but  an  American.  She  was  al 
ways  proclaiming  her  patriotism,  an«l  averting  the 
superiority  of  America  over  every  other  country  in  a 
way  that  would  ha\r  made  anybody  but  a  very  pretty 
uirl  offensive.  Tin-  perplexities  simply  grew  upon  us, 
and  in  the  mid.-t  of  them  my  hu-bund  died,  and  then  I 
h  id  no  one  to  advise  with  or  confide  in.  When  his 
alVairs  were  settled  up,  it  turned  out  that  we  were 
much  poorer  than  w«-  had  believed.  For  a  while  I 
thought  that  I  should  return  home,  and  lihoda  was 
always  eager  to  conn;  back,  but  we  staid  on  at  Flor 
ence,*  living  very  quietly,  and  we  had  scarcely  been 
out  at  all  for  a  year,  when  you  lir-t  met  us  at  Profes 
sor  Garofalo's.  It  was  there  that  >he  met  Mr.  Bloom- 
ingdale,  and  he  was  so  attentive  to  her.  I  could 
see  at  once  that  he  was  -ready  taken  with  her,  and  he 
followed  up  the  acquaintance  in  a  way  that  could  not 
leave  me  any  doubt.  It  was  certainly  not  her  money 
that  attracted  him. 

"I  liked  him  from  the  beginning:  and  his  being  a 
minister  gave  me  a  kind  of  hope.  I  can  hardly  tell 
why.  But  I  thought  that  if  it  ever  came  to  my  hav- 
inu  t.)  tell  him  about  Khoda,  he  would  be  more,  reason 
able.  He  was  so  very  amiable,  very  gentle,  very 
kind.  Did  you  ever  meet  him  afterward,  any \\hei 

M  Xo,"  said  Gluey,  briefly. 

"I  am  sorry;  I  hoped  you  had;  I  thought  you 
might  have  come  to  know  him  well  enough  to  sug- 


52  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

gest —  I  don't  like  his  family,  what  I've  seen  of 
them,  so  well.  If  they  know  at  all  what  is  pending 
between  him  and  Rhoda,  it  doesn't  seem  very  nice  of 
them  to  be  pursuing  her  so." 

"  Mrs.  Meredith  sat  so  dreary  in  her  silence  that 
Olney  pitied  her,  and  found  a  husky  voice  to  say," 
"  Perhaps  they  don't  know." 

"  Perhaps  not,"  she  assented,  sadly.  "  But  my  only 
hope  now  is  in  his  being  able  to  take  it,  when  I  tell 
him,  as  I  have  hardly  the  hope  that  any  other  Ameri 
can  would.  I  must  tell  him,  if  she  accepts  him,  or 
decides  to  accept  him,  and  the  question  is  whether  I 
shall  tell  him  before  I  tell  her.  If  I  tell  him  first, 
fully  and  frankly,  perhaps  —  perhaps  —  he  may  choose 
to  keep  it  from  her  and  she  need  never  know.  What 
—  what  do  you  think  ?  "  she  entreated. 

"  Really,"  said  Olney,  "  that's  a  matter  I  have  no 
sort  of  opinion  about.  I'm  very  sorry,  but  you  must 
excuse  me." 

"  But  you  feel  that  I  must  tell  him  ?  " 

u  That's  another  question  for  you,  Mrs.  Meredith. 
I  can't  answer  it." 

She  threw  herself  back  on  the  sofa.  "I  wish  I 
were  dead !  I  see  no  way  out  of  it ;  and  whatever 
happens,  it  will  kill  the  child." 

Olney  sat  silent  for  some  time  in  a  muse  almost  as 
dreary  as  her  own.  After  having  despised  her  as  a 
morbid  sentimentalist  with  a  hypochondriacal  con 
science,  he  had  come  to  respect  her,  as  we  respect  any 
fellow-creature  on  whom  a  heavy  duty  is  laid,  and 


AN    IMTKUATIYK    MTV.  53 

who  is  struggling  faithfully  to  stand  up  under  the 
burden.  II-  uud  suddenly,  "You  mustn't  tell  him 
first,  Mrs.  Meredith  !  " 

«  Why?" 

••  r,«'cau-r  —  because  —  the  secret  is  hers,  to  keep  it 
or  to  tell  it.  No  one  else  h:is  the  right  to  know  it 
without  her  leave." 

••  And  if  —  if  she  should  choose  to  keep  it  from  him 
—  not  tell  him  at  all?" 

"  I  couldn't  blame  her.  It's  no  fault,  no  wrong  of 
hers.  And  who  is  to  be  harmed  by  its  concealment?  " 

"But  the  chances  —  the  future  —  the  —  the  —  " 

Olney  could  not  bear  the  recurrence  to  this  phase 
of  the  subject.  He  made  a  gesture  of  impatience. 

Mrs.  Meredith  added,  with  hysterical  haste:  "It 
might  come  out  in  a  hundred  ways.  I  can  hear  it  in 
her  voice  at  times  —  it's  a  Hack  voice  !  I  can  see  it 
in  her  looks !  I  can  feel  it  in  her  character  —  so  easy, 
so  irresponsible,  so  fond  of  what  is  soft  and  pleasant! 
She  could  not  deny  herself  the  amusement  of  going 
with  those  people  to-day,  though  I  said  all  I  could 
against  it.  She  cannot  forecast  consequences  ;  she's  a 
creature  of  the  present  hour;  she's  like  them  all! 
I  think  that  in  some  occult,  dreadful  way  she  feels 
her  ailinity  with  them,  and  that's  the  reason  why  she's 
so  attracted  by  them,  so  fond  of  them.  It's  her 
race  calling  her !  I  don't  believe  she  would  ever  tell 
him! 

"I  think  you  ought  to  leave  it  to  her,"  said  Olney. 

"And  let  her  live  a  lie!  Oh,  I  know  too  well 
what  that  is  \  " 


54  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

"It's  bad.  But  there  may  be  worse  things.  It 
seems  as  if  there  might  be  circumstances  in  which  it 
was  one's  right  to  live  a  lie,  as  you  say ;  for  the 
sake  —  " 

"  Never !  "  said  Mrs.  Meredith  vehemently.  "  It 
is  better  to  die  —  to  kill  —  than  to  lie.  I  know  how 
people  say  such  things  and  act  them,  till  life  is  all  one 
web  of  falsehood,  from  the  rising  to  the  going  down  of 
the  sun.  But  I  will  never  consent  to  be  a  party  to 
any  such  deceit.  I  will  tell  Rhoda,  and  then  she 
shall  tell  me  what  she  is  going  to  do,  and  if  she  is  not 
going  to  tell  him,  /will  do  it.  Yes!  I  will  not  be 
responsible  for  the  future,  and  I  should  be  responsible 
if  he  did  not  know.  In  such  a  case  I  could  not  spare 
her.  She  is  my  own  flesh  and  blood ;  she  is  as  dear 
to  me  as  my  own  child  could  be ;  but  if  she  were  my 
own  child  it  would  be  all  the  same.  I  would  rather 
see  her  perish  before  my  eyes  than  married  to  any  man 
who  did  not  know  the  secret  of  her  —  O-o-o-o-o ! " 
Mrs.  Meredith  gave  a  loud,  shuddering  cry,  as  the 
door  was  flung  suddenly  open,  and  Miss  Aldgate 
flashed  radiantly  into  the  room. 

She  kept  the  door-knob  in  her  hand,  while  she  de 
manded,  half  frightened,  half  amused,  "  What  in  the 
world  is  the  matter  ?  Did  I  startle  you  ?  Of  course ! 
But  I  just  ran  in  a  moment  as  we  were  driving  by  — 
we're  going  over  to  do  our  duty  by  Bunker  Hill  Mon 
ument  —  to  see  how  you  were  getting  on.  I'm  so  glad 
you  are  here,  Dr.  Olney."  She  released  the  door 
knob,  and  gave  him  her  hand.  "Now  I  can  leave 


AN     I.M1M.K  A  I  1  \   !       HI    11.  .')."• 

Aunt  Caroline  without  a  qualm  of  conscience  till  after 
lunch  ;  and  I  did  have  a  qualm  or  two,  poor  aunty!  " 

She  >toojied  on  one  knee  Inside  the  sofa,  and  kissed 
her  aunt,  who  seemed  to  Olney  no  better  than  a  mur 
deress  in  the  embrace  of  her  intended  victim.  In  this 
light  and  joyous  presence,  all  that  he  had  heard  of  the 
girl's  anomalous  origin  l>eeani'-  not  only  incredible,  luit 
atrocious.  She  was  purely  and  merely  a  young  lady, 
like  any  other ;  and  he  felt  himself  getting  red  with 
>hame  for  having  heard  what  he  had  been  told  against 
his  will. 

He  could  not  speak,  and  he  marvelled  that  Mrs, 
Meredith  could  command  the  words  to  sav,  in  quite  an 
every-day  voice:  "You  silly  child!  You  needn't 
have  stopped.  I  was  getting  on  perfectly  well." 

"  Of  course  you  were !  And  I  suppose  I  have  in 
terrupted  you  in  the  full  flow  of  symptoms  !  I  can 
imagine  what  a  perfectly  delightful  time  you  were 
having  with  Dr.  Olney !  I  think  I'll  change  these 
gloves."  She  ran  into  the  room  that  opened  from 
Mrs.  Meredith's  parlor,  and  left  him  unable  to  lift  his 
eyes  from  the  floor  in  her  brief  absence.  She  came 
back  pulling  on  one  long  mousquetaire  glove,  while 
the  other  dangled  from  her  fingers,  and  began  to 
laugh.  "  There's  one  of  those  colored  waiters  down 
there  that  even  you  couldn't  have  anything  to  say 
against  my  falling  in  love  with,  Aunt  Caroline.  He's 
about  four  feet  high,  and  his  feet  are  about  eighteen 
inches  long,  so  that  he  looks  just  like  a  capital  L.  He 
doesn't  lift  them  when  he  walks,  but  he  slips  along  on 


56  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY.   > 

them  over  the  floor  like  a  funny  little  mouse ;  I've 
decided  to  call  him  Creepy-Mousy ;  it  just  exactly  de 
scribes  him,  he's  so  small  and  cunning.  And  he's  so 
sweet !  I  should  like  to  own  him,  and  keep  him  as 
long  as  he  lived.  Isn't  it  a  shame  that  we  can't  buy 
them,  Dr.  Olney,  as  we  used  to  do  ?  There  !  _I'H  put 
on  the  other  one  in  the  carriage." 

She  swooped  upon  her  aunt  for  another  kiss,  and 
then  flashed  out  of  the  room  as  she  had  flashed  into  it, 
and  left  Mrs.  Meredith  and  Oluey  staring  at  each 
other. 

"  Well !  "  she  said.  "  You  see  !  It  is  the  race  in 
stinct  !  It  must  assert  itself  sooner  or  later." 

Olney  became  suddenly  sardonic  in  the  sort  of  des 
peration  he  fell  into.  "  I  should  say  it  was  the  other- 
race  instinct  that  was  asserting  itself  sooner ; "  and 
when  he  had  said  this  he  felt  somehow  a  hope,  which 
he  tried  to  impart  to  Mrs.  Meredith. 

At  the  end  of  all  their  talk  she  said :  "  But  that 
doesn't  relieve  me  of  the  duty  I  owe  to  her  and  to 
him.  I  must  tell  her,  at  least,  cost  what  it  may.  I 
cannot  live  this  lie  any  longer.  If  she  chooses  to  do 
so,  perhaps  —  " 


VII. 

Miss  ALDGATE  came  in  late  in  the  afternoon.  She 
came  in  softly,  and  then,  finding  her  aunt  awake,  she 
let  herself  fall  into  an  easy-chair  with  the-  air  of  utter 
exhaustion  that  girls  like  to  put  on.  after  getting  home 
from  a  social  pleasure,  and  sighed  out  a  long  "O-o-o-h, 
dear  I  " 

Her  aunt  let  her  sit  silent  and  stare  awhile  at  the 
carpet  just  beyond  the  toe  of  her  pretty  boot  before 
she  suggested.  M  Well?" 

"  Oh,  nothing !  Only  it  got  to  be  rather  tiresome, 
toward  the  last." 

"  Why  did  you  stay  so  long?  " 

u  I  couldn't  get  away ;  they  wouldn't  let  me  go. 
They  kept  proposing  this  and  that,  and  then  they 
wantt-d  to  arrange  something  for  to-morrow.  But  I 
wouldn't." 

'•They  are  rather  persistent,"  said  Mrs.  Meredith. 

"Yes,  they  are  persistent.  But  they  are  very  kind 
—  they  are  very  good-natured.  I  wish  —  I  wish  I 
liked  them  better  !  " 

"  Don't  you  like  them  ?  " 

"Oh,  I  like  them,  yes,  in  a  kind  of  way.  They'rf 
a  very  familyish  sort  of  a  family ;  they're  so  muck 
bound  up  in  one  another.  Of  course  they  can  do  a 


58  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

great  many  nice  things :  Miss  Bloomingdale  rs  really 
wonderful  with  her  music;  and  Josie  sketches  very 
nicely ;  and  Roberta  sings  beautifully,  —  there's  no 
denying  it ;  but  they  don't  talk  very  much,  and  they're 
all  so  tall  and  handsome  and  blond ;  and  they  sit 
round  with  their  hands  arranged  in  their  laps,  and 
keep  waiting  for  me  to  say  things ;  and  then  their 
mother  starts  them  up  and  makes  them  do  something. 
The  worst  is  she  keeps  dragging  in  Mr.  Bloomingdale 
all  the  time.  There  isn't  anything  that  doesn't  sug 
gest  him  —  what  he  thinks,  what  he  says,  where  he's 
been  and  what  he  did  there;  just  how  far  he's  got  on 
his  way  home  by  this  time ;  how  he's  never  seasick, 
but  he  doesn't  like  rough  weather.  I  began  to  dread 
the  introduction  of  a  new  subject :  it  was  so  sure  to 
bring  round  to  him.  Don't  you  think  they're  of  rather 
an  old-fashioned  taste  ?  " 

"I  never  liked  this  family  very  much,"  said  Mrs. 
Meredith.  "  They  seemed  very  estimable  people,  but 
not  —  " 

"  Our  kind  ?  No,  decidedly.  Did  Dr.  Olney  stay 
long?" 

"  No.  Why  do  you  ask  ?  "  Mrs.  Meredith  returned, 
with  a  startled  look. 

"  Oh,  nothing.  You  seemed  to  be  quite  chummy 
with  him,  and  not  to  want  me  round  a  great  deal  when 
I  came  in."  Miss  Aldgate  had  discovered  the  toe  of 
her  boot  just  beyond  her  skirt,  apparently  with  some 
surprise,  and  she  leaned  forward  to  touch  it  with  the 
point  of  her  parasol,  as  if  to  make  sure  of  it.  "  Is  he 


\\    M;IM  i:  VTIVK    THTY.  59 

comini:  Mirain  thi-  evening?  "  she  a>ked,  leaning  back 
in  ln-r  chair,  ami  twi-ting  her  parasol  by  its  handle. 

••  Not    unlr>s    I    send    for  him.      1    have  his  .-leeping 

medicine." 

••  Yes.  And  I  know  how  to  drop  it.  Did  he  think 
it  strange  my  being  away  from  YOU  so  much  when  '-ou 
needed  a  doctor  ?  " 

••  He  knew  1  didn't  need  .-my  doctor.  Why  do  you 
a-k  Mich  a  question  as  that  ':  " 

••  1  don't  know.  I  thought  it  might  have  struck 
him.  But  I  thought  I  had  better  try  and  see  if  I  could 
•M  used  to  them  or  not.  They're  pretty  formal  peo- 

pl( conventional.  I  mean  in  the  way  of  dress  and 

that  kind  of  thing.  They're  formal  in  their  ideals,  don't 
you  know.  They  would  want  to  do  just  what  they 
thought  other  people  were  doing;  they  would  be 
dreadfully  troubled  if  there  was  anything  about  them 
that  was  not  just  like  everybody  else.  Do  you  think 
Mr.  Bloomingdale  would  be  so?" 

••  I  never  liked  his  family  very  much."  Mrs.  Mere 
dith  repeated.  ••  AVhat  little  I  saw  of  them."  >he 
added,  as  if  conscientiously. 

••Oh.  that  doesn't  count,  Aunt  Caroline  !  "  said  the 
girl,  with  a  laugh.  "  You  never  liked  the  families  of 
any  of  the  Americans  that  you  thought  t'am-i.-d  me. 
But  the  question  is  not  whether  we  like  his  family,  but 
whether  he's  like  them." 

"You  can't  separate  him  from  his  family,  Rhoda. 
You  must  remember  that.  Each  of  us  is  bound  by  a 
thousand  mysterious  ties  to  our  kindred,  our  ancestors  ; 
we  can't  get  away  from  them  — -  " 


60  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

"  Oh,  what  stuff,  aunty !  "  Miss  Aldgate  was  still 
greatly  amused.  "  I  should  like  to  know  how  I'm 
bound  to  my  mother's  family,  that  I  never  saw  one  of ; 
or  to  her  father  or  grandfather  ?  " 

"  How  ?  "  Mrs.  Meredith  gasped. 

"  Yes.  Or  how  much  they  were  bound  to  me,  if 
they  never  tried  to  find  me  out  or  make  themselves 
known  by  any  sort  of  sign  ?  I'm  bound  to  you  be 
cause  we've  always  been  together,  and  I  was  bound  to 
Uncle  Meredith  because  he  was  good  to  me.  But 
there  isn't  anything  mysterious  about  it.  And  Mr. 
Bloomingdale  is  bound  to  his  family  in  the  same  way. 
He's  fond  of  them  because  he's  been  nice  to  them  and 
they've  been  nice  to  him.  I  wonder,"  she  mused, 
while  Mrs.  Meredith  felt  herself  slowly  recoil  from 
the  point  which  she  had  been  suddenly  caught  up  to, 
"  whether  I  really  care  for  him  or  not  ?  There  were 
very  nice  things  about  him ;  and  no,  he  was  not  tire 
some  and  formal-minded  like  them.  I  wish  I  had 
been  a  little  in  love  with  some  one,  and  then  I  could 
tell.  But  I've  never  had  anything  but  decided  dislik- 
ings,  though  I  didn't  dislike  him  decidedly.  No,  I 
rather  liked  him.  That  is,  I  thought  he  was  good. 
Yes,  I  respected  his  goodness.  It's  about  the  only 
thing  in  this  world  you  can  respect.  But  now,  I  re 
member,  he  seemed  very  young,  and  all  the  younger 
because  he  thought  it  was  his  duty  as  a  minister  to 
seem  old.  Did  you  care  very  much  for  his  sermon  ?  " 

Rhoda  came  to  the  end  of  her  thinking  aloud  with 
a  question  that  she  had  to  repeat  before  her  aunt  asked 
drearily  in  answer,  "  What  sermon  ?  " 


AN     IMIT.KA1  IVI.     DUTY.  0)1 

••Wh\.  \\«'  imlv  heard  linn  oner!  The  one  hv 
in  Florence.  I  didn't  have  a  full  sense  of 
his  youth  till  I  heard  that.  Isn't  it  strain:.-  that  there 
arc  ever  young  ministers?  I  suppose  people  think 
they  can  make  up  in  inspiration  what  they  lack  in  ex 
perience.  But  that  day  when  I  looked  round  at  tlio-r 
men  and  women,  some  of  them  gray-haired,  and  mo>t 
of  them  middle-aged,  and  all  of  them  knowing  so  mucli 
more  about  life,  and  its  trials  and  temptations,  and 
troubles  and  sorrows,  than  poor  Mr.  Bloomingdale — 
I  oughtn't  to  call  him  poor  —  and  heard  him  going  on 
ahout  the  birds  and  the  flowers,  I  womb-red  how  they 
could  bear  it.  Of  course  it  was  all  right ;  I  know 
that.  But  if  the  preaeher  shouldn't  happen  to  be  in 
spired,  wouldn't  it  be  awful?  How  old  do  y«ui  >up- 
pose  Dr.  Gluey  Is?*1 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  lie  seems  rather  bald.  Do  you  think  he  is 
forty?" 

"Dear  me,  no,  child  !  He  isn't  thirty  yet,  I  dare 
My.  Some  men  are  bald  much  earlier  than  other>. 
lt'>  a  matter  of  —  heredity." 

••  Heredity  !  Everything's  heredity  with  yon.  Aunt 
Caroline!"  the  girl  laughed.  "I'll  bet  he's  worn  it 
off  by  thinking  too  much  m  one  partieular  spot.  You 
know  that  they  say  now  they  can  tell  just  what  place 
hi  the  brain  a  person  thinks  this  or  that  ;  and  just 
where  the  will-power  comes  from  wh«-n  \ou  wink  your 
eye,  or  wiggle  your  little  linger.  I  wonder  if  Dr. 
Gluey  knows  all  those  thin;:-?  Have  you  tried  him 
on  your  favorite  h»Ti-dity  yt  ?  " 


62  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Rhoda  ?  " 

"  I  know  you  have  !  "  the  girl  exulted.  "  Well,  he 
is  the  kind  of  man  I  should  always  want  to  have  for 
my  doctor  if  I  had  to  have  one  ;  though  I  don't  think 
he's  done  you  a  great  deal  of  good  yet,  Aunt  Caroline : 
you  look  wretched,  and  I  shall  feel  like  scolding  Dr. 
Olney  when  he  comes  again.  But  what  I  mean  is,  he 
has  such  noble  ideas  :  don't  you  think  he  has  ?  " 

"  Yes  —  yes.     About  what  ?  " 

"  Why,  about  the  negroes,  you  know."  Mrs.  Mer 
edith  winced  at  the  word.  "  I  never  happened  to 
see  it  in  that  light  before.  I  thought  when  we  had 
set  them  free,  we  had  done  everything.  But  I  can 
see  now  we  haven't.  We  do  perfectly  banish  them, 
as  far  as  we  can  ;  and  we  don't  associate  with  them 
half  as  much  as  we  do  with  the  animals.  I  got  to 
talking  with  the  Bloomingdales  this  afternoon,  and  I 
had  to  take  the  negroes'  part.  Don't  you  think  that 
was  funny  for  a  Southern  girl  ? "  Mrs.  Meredith 
looked  at  her  with  a  ghastly  face,  and  moved  her  lips 
in  answer,  without  making  any  sound.  "  They  said 
that  the  negroes  were  an  inferior  race,  and  they  never 
could  associate  with  the  whites  because  they  never  could 
be  intellectually  equal  with  them.  I  told  them  about 
that  black  English  lawyer  from  Sierra  Leone  that 
talked  so  well  at  the  table  d'hote  in  Venice  —  better 
than  anybody  else — but  they  wouldn't  give  way. 
They  were  very  narrow-minded ;  or  the  mother  was ; 
the  rest  didn't  say  anything ;  only  made  exclama 
tions.  Mrs.  Bloomiugdale  said  Dr.  Olney  must  be  a 


\\    IMTKKA  i  IN  i     IT  n  .  f>.°, 

very  >tr:ui-«-  phy>ician,  to  ha\e  tho-e  idea-.  1  hope 
.Mr.  lUoominiMlale  isn't  like  her.  You  would  sav  he 
\\.is  a  good  deal  younger  than  Dr.  Olncv,  wouldn't 
yon 

••  Yes  —  not  so  very.      But  why  —  " 
Rhoda  broke  out  into    a  lau^li    of    humorous   per 
plexity.      "Why.  ii'  he   were  only   a  little  older,  or  a 
1  deal   older,  he  could  advi>e  me  whether  to  marrv 
him  or  not  ?n      The  laughter  faded  suddenly  from  her 
-.    and  she  fell  hack  dejectedly  against    her  chair, 
and  remained  looking  at  her  aunt,  as   it'  trying  to  read 
in  her  face  the  silent  working  of  her  thought.    "  Well?" 
she  demanded,  finally. 

Mrs.  Meredith  dropped  her  eye-.  ••  Why  need  you 
marry  any  one?" 

••  What  a  funny  question  !  "  the  girl  an.-wered,  with 
the  xj.arkle  of  a  re-turning  smil--.  "  S.»  a-  to  have 
ximebody  to  take  care  of  me  in  my  old  age!"  The 
youn^  like  to  speak  of  age  so,  with  a  mocking  in 
credulity;  they  feel  that,  however  it  may  have  fared 
with  all  the  race  hitherto,  they  never  can  be  old,  and 
they  like  to  make  a  joke  of  the  mere  notion.  "You'll 
be  getting  old  yourself  some  day.  Aunt  Caroline,  and 
then  what  shall  I  do?  Don't  you  think  that  a  woman 
ought  to  get  married  • 

"  Yes  —  yes.  Not  always  —  not  necessarily.  Cer 
tainly  not  to  have  some  one  to  take  care  of  her." 

"Of  course  not!  That  would  be  a  very  base 
motive.  I  suppose  I  really  meant,  have  somebody 
for  me  to  take  care  of.  I  think  that  is  what  keeps 


64  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

one  from  being  lonesome  more  than  anything  else.  I 
do  feel  so  alone  sometimes.  It  seems  to  me  there  are 
very  few  girls  so  perfectly  isolated.  Why,  just  think  I 
With  the  exception  of  you,  I  don't  believe  I've  got  a 
single  relation  in  the  world."  Rhoda  seemed  inter 
ested  rather  than  distressed  by  the  fact.  "  Now  there 
are  the  Bloomingdales,"  she  went  on  ;  "  it  seems  as  if 
they  had  connections  everywhere.  That  is  something 
like  a  family.  If  I  married  JVJr.  Bloomingdale,  I  could 
always  have  somebody  to  take  care  of  as  long  as  I 
lived.  To  be  sure,  they  would  be  Bloomingdales," 
she  added,  dreamily. 

"  Rhoda !  "  said  her  aunt,  "  I  cannot  let  you  speak 
so.  If  you  are  in  earnest  about  Mr.  Bloomingdale  —  " 

"  I  am.  But  not  about  his  family  —  or  not  so  much 
so." 

"  You  cannot  take  him  without  taking  his  family ; 
that  is  always  the  first  thing  to  be  thought  of  in  mar 
riage,  and  young  people  think  of  it  the  last.  The 
family  on  each  side  counts  almost  as  much  as  the 
couple  themselves  in  a  marriage." 

"  Mine  wouldn't,"  the  girl  interpolated.  "  There's 
so  very  little  of  it !  " 

If  Mrs.  Meredith  was  trying  to  bring  the  talk  to 
this  point,  she  now  seemed  to  find  herself  too  suddenly 
confronted  with  it,  and  she  shrank  back  a  little.  "I 
don't  mean  that  family  is  the  first  thing." 

"  You  just  said  it  was,  aunty  !  " 

"  The  first  thing,"  Mrs.  Meredith  continued,  ignor 
ing  the  teasing  little  speech,  "  is  to  make  sure  of  your 
self,  to  he  satisfied  that  you  love  him," 


AN     IM1TK  ATIVi:     PITY.  65 

"It's  so  mucli  easier,"  the  girl  sighed  in  mock- 
serion>ness.  ••  to  lie  satisfied  that  I  don't  love  them" 

••  Hut  that  won't  do.  Rlmda."  said  Mrs.  Meredith, 
"and  I  can't  let  you  treat  the  matter  in  this  trivial 
spirit.  It  is  a  most  important  matter  —  far  more  im 
portant  than  you  can  realize." 

"I  can't  realize  anything  about  it  —  that's  the 
trouble." 

"Yon  can  realize  whether  you  wish  to  accept  him 
or  not." 

"  No ;  that's  just  what  I  can't  do." 

"  You've  had  time  enough." 

••  I've  had  nearly  a  week.  But  I  want  all  the  time 
there  is ;  it  wouldn't  be  any  too  much.  I  must  see 
him  again  —  after  seeing  so  much  of  his  family." 

••  Rhoda !  "  her  aunt  called  sternly  to  her  from  the 
sofa. 

But  Rhoda  did  not  respond  with  any  sort  of  intimi 
dation.  She  was  looking  down  into  the  street  from 
tin-  window  where  she  sat,  and  she  suddenly  bowed. 
'•It  was  Dr.  Olney,"  she  explained.  "He  was  just 
coming  into  the  hotel,  and  he  looked  up.  I  wonder 
how  he  knew  it  was  our  window?  He  seems  twice  as 
young  with  his  hat  on.  I  wish  he'd  wear  his  hat  in 
the  room.  But  of  course  he  can't." 

Kverything  that  had  happened  since  Rhoda  came  in 
made  it  more  difficult  for  Mrs.  Meredith  to  discharge 
the  duty  that  she  thought  she  had  nerved  herself  up 
to.  Sin-  hail  pn>mi<ed  h«-r><-lf  that  if  Rhoda  had  de 
cided  to  accept  Mr.  Bloomhigdale,  she  would  speak, 


66  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

and  tell  her  everything ;  but  she  was  not  certain  yet 
that  the  girl  had  decided,  though  from  the  way  in 
which  she  played  with  the  question,  and  her  freedom 
from  all  anxiety  about  it,  she  felt  pretty  sure  that  she 
had.  She  wished,  vaguely,  perversely,  weakly,  that 
she  had  not,  for  then  the  ordeal  for  them  both  could 
be  postponed  indefinitely  again.  She  sympathized 
with  the  girl  in  her  trials  through  the  young  minister's 
family,  who  were  so  repugnant  to  her  in  their  eager 
ness  for  her,  and  she  burned  with  a  prophetic  indigna 
tion  in  imagining  how  such  people  would  cast  her  off 
when  they  knew  what  she  really  was.  The  young 
man  himself  seemed  kind  and  good,  and  if  it  were  a 
question  of  him  alone,  she  believed  she  could  trust 
him ;  but  these  others !  that  mother,  those  sisters ! 
She  recoiled  from  the  duty  of  humiliating  the  poor 
girl  before  them,  so  helplessly,  innocently,  ignorantly 
guilty  of  her  own  origin.  The  child's  gayety  and 
lightness,  her  elfish  whimsicality  and  thoughtless 
superficiality,  as  well  as  those  gleams  and  glimpses  of 
a  deeper  nature  which  a  word  or  action  gave  from 
time  to  time,  smote  the  elder  woman's  heart  with  a 
nameless  pain  and  a  tender  compassion.  By  all  her 
circumstance  Rhoda  had  a  right  to  be  the  somewhat 
spoiled  and  teasing  pretty  thing  that  she  was  ;  and  all 
that  sovereign  young-ladyishness  which  sat  so  becom 
ingly  upon  her  was  proper  to  the  station  a  beautiful 
young  girl  holds  in  a  world  where  she  has  had  only  to 
choose  and  to  command.  But  Mrs.  Meredith  shud 
dered  to  think  with  what  contempt,  open  or  masquerad- 


AN     IMl'KKA  TI\  i:     DUTY.  07 

ing  as  pity,  all  this  would  be  denied  to  her.  Doubt 
less  she  exaggerated ;  the  world  slowly  changes  ;  it 
condones  many  things  to  those  who  are  well  placed  in 
it  ;  and  it  might  not  have  fared  so  ill  with  the  child  as 
the  woman  thought;  but  Mr>.  Meredith  had  brooded 
so  long  upon  her  destiny  that  she  could  see  it  only  in 
the  gloomiest  colors.  She  was  darkling  in  its  deepest 
shadow  when  she  heard  Khoda  saying,  as  if  at  the  end 
of  some  speech  that  she  had  not  caught,  "  But  he 
doesn't  seem  to  have  any  more  family  than  I  have." 

-Who?  "Mrs.  Meredith  asked. 

••  Dr.  Olney." 

••  You  don't  know  anything  about  his  family." 

••  Well,  I  don't  know  anything  about  my  own," 
Rhoda  answered,  lightly.  She  added,  soberly,  after  a 
moment:  "Don't  you  think  it's  rather  strange  that 
my  mother's  family  never  cared  to  look  us  up  in  any 
way?  Even  it'  they  were  opposed  to  her  marrying 
papa,  one  would  think  they  might  have  forgiven  it  by 
this  time.  The  family  ties  are  so  strong  among  the 
French." 

Mrs.  Meredith  dropped  her  eyes,  and  niurmured, 
"  It  may  be  different  with  the  Creoles." 

"  No,  I  don't  believe  it  is.  I've  heard  it's  more  so. 
Did  papa  never  see  any  of  mamma's  family  but  her 
lather?  It  seems  so  strange  that  she  should  have 
been  as  much  alone  as  I  am.  I  know  I  have  you, 
Aunt  Caroline.  Well,  I  don't  know  what  to  think 
about  Mr.  Bloomingdale.  I'm  always  summing  up 
his  virtues;  he's  very  good,  and  he's  good-looking, 


68  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

and  he's  good-natured.  He's  rich,  though  I  don't  let 
that  count.  He  parts  his  hair  too  much  on  one  side, 
but  that  doesn't  matter,  I  could  make  him  part  it  'in 
the  middle,  and  it's  a  very  pretty  shade  of  brown. 
His  eyes  are  good,  and  his  mouth  wouldn't  be  weak  if 
he  wore  his  beard  full.  I  think  he  has  very  good 
ideas,  and  I'm  sure  he  would  be  devoted  all  his  days. 
It  isn't  so  easy  to  sum  a  person  up,  though,  is  it  ?  I 
wish  I  knew  whether  I  cared  for  him.  I  don't  believe 
I've  ever  been  in  love  with  anybody  yet.  Of  course, 
I've  had  my  fancies.  I  do  respect  Mr.  Bloomingdale, 
and  when  I  think  how  very  anxious  he  was  to  have 
me  care  for  him,  I  don't  know  but  I  could  if  I  really 
tried.  But  ought  one  to  have  to  try  ?  That's  the  ques 
tion.  Oughtn't  the  love  to  go  of  itself,  without  being 
pushed  or  pulled  ?  I  wish  I  knew  !  Aunt  Caroline, 
do  you  believe  in  '  learning  to  love '  your  husband 
after  marriage  ?  That's  what  happens  in  some  of  the 
stories ;  but  it  seems  very  ridiculous.  1  wish  it  was 
my  duty  to  marry  him  —  or  not  to  ;  then  I  could  de 
cide.  I  believe  I'm  turning  out  quite  a  slave  of  duty. 
I  must  have  'caught  it'  from  you,  Aunt  Caroline. 
Now  I  can  imagine  myself  sacrificing  anything  to  duty. 
If  Mr.  Bloomingdale  were  to  step  ashore  from  the 
next  steamer,  and  drive  to  the  hotel  without  stopping 
to  take  breath,  and  get  himself  shown  up  here,  and 
eay,  '  I've  just  dropped  in,  Miss  Aldgate,  to  offer  you 
the  opportunity  of  uniting  your  life  with  mine  in  a 
high  and  holy  purpose  —  say  working  among  the  poor 
on  the  east  side  in  New  York,  or  going  down  to  edu- 


AN'     1MPKHATIVK    IU    PT.  H9 

cate  the  black  race  in  tin-  South  '  —  I  believe  I  .should 
seize  the  opportunity  without  a  intinnur.  IVrhaps  he 
mav.  Do  you  think  he  will?" 

Rhoda  ended  her  monologue  with  a  gay  look  at 
her  aunt,  who  wa«  silent  at  the  end,  as  she  had  been 
throughout,  turniu"  the  trouble  before  them  over  and 

O  O 

over  iii  IMT  mind.  As  happens  when  we  are  pre 
occupied  with  one  thing,  all  other  things  seem  to  tend 
toward  it  and  bear  upon  it ;  half  a  dozen  mere  acci 
dents  of  the  girl's  spoken  reverie  touched  the  sore 
place  in  Mrs.  Meredith's  soul  and  fretted  it  to  an 
anguish  that  she  a>ked  herself  how  she  could  bear.  It 
all  accused  and  judged  and  condemned  her,  because 
she  had  kept  putting  by  the  duty  she  had  to  discharge, 
and  making  it  contingent  upon  that  decision  of  the 
girl's  which  she  was  still  far  from  ascertaining.  In 
her  recoil  from  this  duty  she  had  believed  that  if  it 
nerd  not  be  done  at  this  time,  it  somehow  need  never 
be  done  ;  or  she  had  tried  to  believe  this.  If  Rhoda 
rejected  this  young  man,  she  might  keep  her  safe  for 
ever  from  the  fact  which  she  felt  must  wreck  the  life 
of  the  light-hearted,  high-spirited  girl.  That  was  the 
refuge  which  Mrs.  Meredith  had  taken  from  the  ta>k 
which  so  strongly  beset  her;  but  when  she  had  formu 
lated  the  case  to  herself,  the  absurdity,  tin-  impo>^ibil- 
ity  of  her  position  appeared  to  her.  If  Rhoda  c.-uvd 
nothing  for  Mr.  Bloomingdale,  the  day  would  come 
when  she  would  care  e\«  rvthing  for  someone  else; 
and  that  day  could  not  be  postponed,  nor  the  dtit\  «>t 
that  day.  It  would  be  crueler  to  leave  her  unarmed 


70  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

against  the  truth  until  the  moment  when  her  heart 
was  set  upon  a  love,  and  then  strike  her  down  with  it. 
Mrs.  Meredith  now  saw  this  ;  she  saw  that  the  doubt 
in  which  she  was  resting  was  the  very  moment  of 
action  for  her ;  and  that  the  occasion  was  divinely 
appointed  for  dealing  more  mercifully  with  the  child 
than  any  other  that  could  have  offered.  She  had 
often  imagined  herself  telling  Rhoda  what  she  had  to 
tell,  and  with  the  romantic  coloring  from  the  novels 
she  had  read,  she  had  painted  herself  in  the  heroic 
discharge  of  her  duty  at  the  instant  when  the  girl  was 
radiant  in  the  possession  of  an  accepted  love,  and  had 
helped  her  to  renounce,  to  suffer,  and  to  triumph. 
She  had  always  been  very  strong  in  these  dramatized 
encounters,  and  had  borne  herself  with  a  stony  power 
throughout,  against  which  the  bruised  and  bleeding 
girl  had  rested  her  broken  spirit ;  but  now  she  cowered 
before  her.  She  longed  to  fall  upon  her  knees  at  her 
feet,  and  first  implore  her  forgiveness  for  what  she  was 
going  to  do,  and  not  speak  till  she  had  been  forgiven ; 
but  habit  is  strong,  really  stronger  than  emotion  of 
any  sort,  and  so  Mrs.  Meredith  remained  lying  on  her 
sofa,  and  merely  put  up  her  fan  to  shut  out  the  sight 
of  the  child,  as  she  said,  "  And  if  it  were  your  duty  to 
give  up  Mr.  Bloomingdale,  could  you  do  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  instantly,  Aunt  Caroline  !  "  answered  Rhoda, 
with  a  gay  burlesque  of  fortitude.  "  I  would  not 
hesitate  a  single  week.  But  why  do  you  ask  such  an 
awful  question  ?  " 

"  Is  it  a  very  awful  question  ?  "  Mrs.  Meredith  pal 
pitated. 


A\     IMPKRATIYI       IH    IV.  71 

"  Well,  rather !  One  may  wish  to  give  a  person  up, 
but  not  as  a  drift/." 

Mrs.  Meredith  understood  this  well  enough,  but  it 
was  her  perfect  intelligence  concerning  the  whole  situ 
ation  that  seemed  to  disable  her.  She  made  out  to 
say,  "Then  you  have  decided  not  to  give  him  up 

yet  ? " 

"I've  decided  —  I've  decided  —  let  me  think!  — 
not  to  decide  till  I  see  him  again!  What  do  you 
mean  by  if  it  were  my  duty  to  give  him  up  r  " 

"It  would  be  your  duty,"  Mrs.  Meredith  faltered, 
"to  give  him  up.  unless  you  were  sure  you  loved 
him." 

"Oh,  yes;  certainly.      That." 

"You  wouldn't  wish  him.  after  you've  seen  so  much 
of  his  family,  not  to  know  everything  about  yours,  if 
you  decided  to  accept  him  ?  " 

••  Why,  you're  all  there  is,  Aunt  Caroline !  You're 
the  end  of  the  story.  I  should  hope  he  understood 
that.  What  else  is  there  ?  " 

"Nothing  —  nothing —  There  is  very  little.  But 
we  ought  to  tell  Mr.  Bloomingdale  all  we  know  —  of 
your  mother's  family." 

"Why,  certainly.  I  expected  to  do  that.  There 
was  nothing  disgraceful  about  them,  I  imagine,  except 
their  behavior  toward  mamma." 

"No—" 

"  You  speak  as  if  there  were.  What  are  you  keep 
ing  back,  Aunt  Caroline  ?"  Rhoda  sat  upright,  and 
faced  her  aunt  with  a  sort  of  sudden  fierceness  which 


72  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

she  sometimes  showed  when  she  was  roused  to  self- 
assertion.  This  was  seldom,  in  the  succession  of  her 
amiable  moods,  but  when  it  happened,  Mrs.  Meredith 
saw  in  it  the  outbreak  of  the  ancestral  savagery, 
and  shuddered  at  it  as  a  self-betrayal  rather  than  a 
self-assertion ;  but  perhaps  self-assertion  is  this  with 
all  of  us.  "  What  are  you  hinting  at  ?  If  there  was 
anything  dishonorable  —  " 

Mrs.  Meredith  found  herself  launched  at  last.  She 
could  not  go  back  now  ;  she  could  not  stop.  She  had 
only  the  choice,  in  going  on,  of  telling  the  truth,  or 
setting  sail  to  shipwreck  under  some  new  lie.  For 
this,  both  will  and  invention  failed  her ;  she  was  too 
weak  mentally,  if  she  was  not  too  strong  morally,  for 
this.  She  went  on,  with  a  kind  of  mechanical  force. 

"  If  there  were  something  dishonorable  that  was  not 
their  fault,  that  was  their  wrong,  their  sorrow,  their 
burden  —  what  should  you  think  of  your  father's 
marrying  your  mother,  with  a  full  knowledge  of  it  ?  " 

"  I  should  think  he  did  nobly  and  bravely  to  marry 
her.  But  that's  nothing.  What  was  the  disgrace? 
What  had  they  done,  that  they  had  to  suffer  inno 
cently  ?  You  needn't  be  afraid  of  telling  me  every 
thing.  I  don't  care  what  Mr.  Bloomingdale  or  any 
one  thinks  ;  I  shall  be  proud  of  them  for  it ;  I  shall 
be  glad !  "  Mrs.  Meredith  saw  with  terror  that  the 
girl's  fancy  had  kindled  with  some  romantic  conjec 
ture.  "  Who  was  my  grandfather  ?  " 

"  I  know  very  little  about  him,  Rhoda,"  said  Mrs. 
Meredith,  seeking  to  rest  in  this  neutral  truth.  "Your 


AX    nilT.KA  I  I  Vi:     I'l    IV.  7-'! 

father  never  told  me  much,  except  that  In-  was  :i  Cre 
ole,  and  —  and  rich  ;  and —  and  —  respect. •<!.  as  th<»-e 
things  went  there,  among  his  people —  " 

••  Was  In-  >o;ne  old  slaver,  like  those  in  Mr.  Oihlr's 
book  ?  I  shouldn't  cure  for  that !  But  that  would 
have  been  his  fault,  and  it  wouldn't  have  been  any 
great  di>grace;  and  yon  said — •  And  my  grand 
mother —  who  was  she  ?  " 

'•  She  was  —  not  his  wife." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  the  girl,  with  a  quick  breath,  as  if  she 
had  been  struck  over  the  heart.  •'  That  was  how  the 
dishonor—  She  stopped,  with  an  absent  stare  fixed 
upon  her  aunt,  who  waited  in  silence  for  her  to  realize 
this  e\  il  which  was  still  so  far  sho"t  of  the  worst. 
Where  -h.-  sat  she  could  not  see  the  blush  of  shame 
that  gradually  stained  the  girl's  face  to  her  throat  and 
forehead.  ^'  Who  was  she  ?  " 

Mrs.  Meredith  tried  to  think  how  the  words  would 
sound  as  she  said  them,  and  simultaneously  she  said 
them,  "She  was  his  slave." 

The  girl  was  silent  and  motionless.  AVith  her  head 
defined  against  the  open  window,  her  face  showed 
quite  black  toward  h«-r  aunt,  as  if  the  fact  of  her 
mother's  race  had  remanded  her  to  its  primordial 
hue  in  touching  her  consciousness.  Mrs.  Meredith 
had  risen,  and  sat  with  on.-  hand  grasping  tin-  wrap 
that  still  covered  her  f«-.-t.  as  if  ready  to  ca>t  it  loose 
and  tly  her  victim's  presrner.  if  it  becann-  intolerable. 
But  she  found  her>«-lf  too  weak  to  stand  up.  and  -lie 
waited,  throbbing  and  quaking,  for  Rhoda  to  speak. 


74  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

The  girl  gave  a  little,  low,  faltering  laugh,  an.  inarticu 
late  note  of  such  pathetic  fear  and  pitiful  entreaty  that 
it  went  through  the  woman's  heart.  "  Aunt  Caroline, 
are  you  crazy  ?  " 

"  Crazy  ?  "  The  word  gave  her  an  instant  of  strange 
respite.  Was  she  really  mad,  and  had  she  long  dreamed 
this  thing  in  the  cloudy  deliriums  of  a  sick  brain  ?  The 
fact  of  her  hopeless  sanity  repossessed  her  from  this 
tricksy  conjecture.  If  I  were  only  crazy  !  " 

"  And  you  mean  to  say  —  to  tell  me  —  that  —  that 
-lam  —  black?" 

"  Oh,  no,  poor  child  !  You  are  as  white  as  I  am  — 
as  any  one.  No  one  would  ever  think  —  " 

"  But  I  have  that  blood  in  me  ?  It  is  the  same 
thing !  "  An  awful  silence  followed  again,  and  then 
the  girl  said:  "And  you  let  me  grow  up  thinking  I 
was  white,  like  other  girls,  when  you  knew —  You 
let  me  pass  myself  off  on  myself  and  every  one  else, 
for  what  I  wasn't !  Oh,  Aunt  Caroline,  wrhat  are  you 
telling  me  this  ghastly  thing  for  ?  It  isn't  true  !  You 
couldn't  have  let  me  live  on  all  these  years  thinking  I 
was  a  white  person,  when —  You  would  have  told 
me  from  the  very  beginning,  as  soon  as  I  could  begin 
to  understand  anything.  You  wouldn't  have  told  me 
all  those  things  about  my  mother's  family,  and  their 
being  great  people,  and  disowning  her,  and  all  that ! 
If  this  is  true  you  wouldn't  have  let  me  believe  that, 
you  and  Uncle  Meredith  ?  " 

"  We  let  you  believe  it,  but  you  made  it  up  your 
self  ;  we  never  told  you  anything." 


AN"     mri.KATIVl.     IH    t'Y.  75 

"  l>ut  y«»u  couldn't  have  thought  that  was  being 
honest,  and  so  you  couldn't  have  done  it  —  you 
couldn't.  And  so  it  isn't  any  of  it  true  that  you've 
just  told  me.  But  why  did  you  tell  me  such  a  thing? 
I  don't  believe  you  have  told  me  it.  Why,  I  must  be 
dreaming.  It's  as  if  —  as  if  —  you  were  to  come  to 
a  perfectly  well  prr.-nn.  and  tell  them  that  they  were 
going  to  die  in  half  an  hour.  Don't  you  see  ?  How 
ran  you  tell  me  such  a  thing?  Don't  you  understand 
that  it  tears  my  whole  life  up,  and  flings  it  out  on  the 
ground?  But  you  know  it  isn't  tun-.  Oh,  my,  I  think 
my  head  will  burst!  AVliy  don't  you  speak  to  me,  and 
tell  me  why  you  said  >m-h  a  thing?  Is  it  because  you 
don't  want  me  to  marry  Mr.  Bloomingdale  ?  Well,  I 
won't  marry  him.  Now  will  you  say  it  ?  " 

u  Rhoda !  "  her  aunt  began,  "whether  you  married 
Mr.  Bloomingdale  or  not,  the  time  had  come  — 

"  No !  The  time  had  gone.  It  had  come  as  soon 
as  I  could  speak  or  understand  the  first  word.  Then 
would  have  been  the  time  for  you  to  tell  me  such  a 
thing  if  it  were  true,  so  that  I  might  have  grown  up 
knowing  it,  and  trying  to  bear  it.  But  it  isn't  true, 
and  you're  just  saying  it  for  some  other  reason.  Wluit 
has  happened  to  you,  Aunt  Caroline  ?  I  am  going  to 
send  for  Dr.  Olney ;  you're  not  well.  It's  something 
in  that  medicine  of  his,  I  know  it  is.  Let  me  look  at 
you  !  "  She  ran  suddenly  toward  Mrs.  Meredith,  who 
recoiled,  crouching  back  into  the  corner  of  her  sofa. 
The  girl  broke  into  a  hysterical  laugh.  "  Do  you 
think  I  will  hurt  you  ?  Oh,  Aunt  Caroline,  take  it 


76  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

back,  take  it  back!  See,  I'll  get  on  my  knees  to 
you  !  "  She  threw  herself  down  before  the  sofa  where 
Mrs.  Meredith  crouched.  "  Oh,  you  couldn't  have 
been  so  wicked  as  to  live  such  a  lie  as  that !  " 

"  It  was  a  lie,  the  basest,  the  vilest,"  said  Mrs.  Mer 
edith,  with  a  sort  of  hopeless  gasp.  "  But  I  never  saw 
the  time  when  I  must  tell  you  the  truth  —  and  so  I 
couldn't." 

"  Oh,  no,  no !  Don't  take  yourself  from  me !  " 
The  girl  dropped  her  head  on  the  woman's  knee,  and 
broke  into  a  wild  sobbing.  "  I  don't  know  what  you're 
doing  this  for.  It  can't  be  true  —  it  can't  be  real. 
Shall  I  never  wake  from  it,  and  have  you  back  ?  You 
were  all  I  had  in  the  world,  and  now,  if  you  were  not 
what  I  thought  you,  so  true  and  good,  I  haven't  even 
you  any  more.  Oh,  oh,  oh  !  " 

"  Oh,  it  was  all  wrong,"  said  Mrs.  Meredith,  in  a 
tearless  misery,  a  dry  pang  of  the  heart  for  which  her 
words  were  no  relief.  "  There  hasn't  been  a  day  or 
an  hour  when  I  haven't  felt  it ;  and  I  have  always 
prayed  for  light  to  see  my  duty,  and  strength  to  do  it. 
God  knows  that  if  I  could  bear  this  for  you,  how 
gladly  I  would  do  it.  I  have  borne  it  all  these  years, 
and  the  guilt  of  the  concealment  besides ;  that  is 
something,  though  it  is  nothing  to  what  you. are  suf 
fering.  I  know  that — I  know  that!  " 

The  girl  sobbed  on  and  on,  and  the  woman  repeated 
the  same  things  over  and  over,  a  babble  of  words  in 
which  there  was  no  comfort,  no  help,  but  which  suf 
ficed  to  tide  them  both  over  from  the  past  which  had 


AN     I  MI'IK  \T1VK     IHTY.  77 

dropped  into  chaos  In-hind  them  to  a  new  present  in 
which  they  must  try  to  g-iin  a  footing  once  more. 

The  girl  suddenly  ceased  to  bemoan  herself,  and 
lifted  her  head,  to  look  into  her  aunt's  face.  "And 
my  mother,"  she  said,  ignoring  the  piteous  sympathy 
she  saw,  "  was  she  my  father's  slave,  too  ?  " 

"She  was  your  father's  wife.  Slavery  was  past 
then,  and  lie  was  too  good  a  man  for  anything  else, 
though  he  knew  his  marriage  would  ruin  him,  as  it 
did." 

"  At  least  there  is  some  one  I  can  honor,  then  ;  I 
can  honor  him"  said  the  girl,  with  an  unpitying  hard 
ness  m  her  tone.  She  rose  to  her  feet,  and  turned 
toward  the  door  of  her  own  room. 

"Is  there  —  is  there  anything  else  that  I  can  tell 
—  that  you  wish  to  know?  "  her  aunt  entreated.  "  Oh, 
child  !  If  you  could  only  understand  —  " 

"  I  do  understand,"  said  the  girl. 

Mrs.  Meredith,  in  her  millionfold  prefigurations  of 
this  moment,  had  often  suffered  from  the  necessity  of 
insinuating  to  the  ignorance  of  girlhood  all  the  sad  de 
tails  of  the  social  tragedy  of  which  she  was  the  victim. 
But  she  perceived  that  this  at  least  was  to  be  spared 
her,  that  the  girl  had  somehow  in-tantly  reali/.rd  tin- 
whole  affair  in  these  aspects.  In  middle  life  we  often 
forget,  amidst  the  accumulations  of  experience.  1m w 
early  the  main  bases  of  it  were  laid  in  our  consciou  — 
ness.  We  suppose,  when  we  are  experienced,  that 
knowledge  comes  solely  from  experience;  but  knowl 
edge,  or  if  not  knowledge,  then  truth,  comes  largely 


78  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

from  perceptiou,  from  instinct,  from  divination,  from 
the  intelligence  of  our  mere  potentialities.  A  man  can 
be  anything  along  the  vast  range  from  angel  to  devil ; 
without  living  either  the  good  thing  or  the  bad  thing 
in  which  his  fancy  dramatizes  him,  he  can  perceive  it. 
His  intelligence  may  want  accuracy,  though  after-ex 
perience  often  startling!  y  verifies  it ;  but  it  does  not 
want  truth.  The  materials  of  knowledge  accumulate 
from  innumerable  unremembered  sources.  All  at 
once,  some  vital  interest  precipitates  the  latent  elec 
tricity  of  the  cloudy  mass  in  a  flash  that  illumines  the 
world  with  a  shadowless  brilliancy  and  shows  every 
thing  in  its  very  form  and  meaning.  Then  the  wit 
ness  perceives  that  somehow  from  the  beginning  of 
conscious  being  he  had  understood  all  this  before,  and 
every  influence  and  circumstance  had  tended  to  the 
significance  revealed. 

The  proud,  pure  girl  who  had  been  told  that  her 
mother  was  slave-born  and  sin-born,  had  lived  as  care 
fully  sheltered  from  the  guilt  and  shame  that  are  in 
the  world  as  tender  love  and  pitying  fear  could  keep 
her ;  but  so  much  of  the  sad  fact  of  evil  had  somehow 
reached  her  that  she  stood  in  a  sudden  glare  of  the 
reality.  She  understood,  and  she  felt  all  scathed 
within  by  the  intelligence,  by  whatever  the  cruelest 
foe  could  have  told  her  with  the  most  unsparing  ful 
ness,  whatever  the  fondest  friend  could  have  wished 
her  not  to  know.  The  swiftness  of  these  mental 
processes  no  words  can  suggest ;  we  can  portray  life, 
not  living. 


AN    IMPI  i; A  i  i\  i.    itrrv.  79 

••  I  am  going  to  i\\\  room,  now,"  she  said  to  her 
aunt,  "and  whatever  happens,  don't  follow  me,  don't 
c  all  me.  If  you  are  dying,  don't  speak  to  me.  I  have 
a  riiiht  to  hi-  alone." 

She  crossed  to  the  door  of  her  chamber  opening 
from  the  little  parlor,  and  closed  it  behind  her,  and 
ht  r  aunt  fell  back  again  on  her  sofa.  She  was  too 
weak  to  follow  her  if  she  had  wished,  and  she  was  too 
wi>e  to  wi.-h  it.  She  lay  there  revolving  the  whole 
misery  in  her  mind,  turning  it  over  and  over  ten  thou- 
>and  times.  She  said  to  herself  that  it  was  worse,  far 
worse,  than  she  had  ever  pictured  it;  but  in  fact  it 
\\as  better,  for  her.  She  pretended  otherwise,  but  for 
her  there  was  the  relief  in  the  situation  of  a  lie  owned, 
a  truth  spoken,  and  with  whatever  heart-wrung  drops 
she  told  the  throes  of  the  anguish  beyond  that  door, 
for  herself  she  was  glad.  It  was  monstrous  to  be 
glad,  she  knew  that ;  but  she  knew  that  she  was  glad. 

After  awhile  she  began  to  be  afraid  of  the  absolute 
silence  that  continued  in  Rhoda's  room,  and  then  she 
did  what  men  would  say  a  man  would  not  have  done ; 
she  crept  to  the  door  and  peeped  and  listened.  She 
could  not  hear  anything,  but  she  saw  Rhoda  sitting  by 
the  table  writing.  She  went  back  to  her  sofa,  and  lay 
there  more  patiently  now ;  but  as  the  time  passed  she 
began  to  be  hungry ;  with  shame  that  did  not  suffer 
her  to  ring  and  ask  for  anything  to  eat,  she  began  to 
feel  the  weak  and  self-pitiful  craving  of  an  invalid  for 
food. 

The   time    passed    till  the  travelling-clock  on   the 


80  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

mantel  showed  her  that  it  was  half-past  seven.  Then 
Rhoda's  door  was  flung  open,  and  the  girl  stood  before 
her  with  her  hat  on,  and  dressed  to  go  out.  She  had 
a  letter  in  her  hand,  and  she  said,  with  a  mechanical 
hardness,  "  I  have  written  to  him,  and  I  am  going  out 
with  the  letter.  When  I  come  back  — 

"  You  can  send  your  letter  out,"  pleaded  her  aunt ; 
she  knew  what  the  girl  had  written  too  well  to  ask. 
"  It's  almost  dark ;  it's  too  late  for  you  to  be  out  on 
the  streets  alone." 

"  Oh,  what  could  happen  to  me  ?  "  demanded  Rhoda, 
scornfully.  "  Or  if  some  one  insulted  a  colored  girl, 
what  of  it  ?  When  I  come  back  I  will  pack  for  you, 
and  in  the  morning  we  will  start  for  New  Orleans,  and 
try  to  find  out  my  mother's  family." 

Her  aunt  said  nothing  to  this,  but  she  set  herself 
earnestly  to  plead  with  the  girl  not  to  go  out.  "  It 
will  be  dark,  Rhoda,  and  you  don't  know  the  streets. 
Indeed  you  mustn't  go  out.  You  haven't  had  any 
dinner  —  For  my  sake  — 

"  For  your  sake !  "  said  Rhoda.  She  went  on,  as  if 
that  were  answer  enough,  "  I  have  written  to  him  that 
all  is  over  between  us  —  it  was,  even  before  this :  I 
could  never  have  married  him  —  and  that  when  he 
arrives  we  shall  be  gone,  and  he  must  never  try  to  see 
me  again.  I've  told  you  all  that  you  could  ask,  Aunt 
Caroline,  and  now  there  is  one  thing  I  want  you  to 
answer  me.  Is  there  any  one  else  who  knows  this  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed,  child  !  "  answered  Mrs.  Meredith  in 
stantly,  and  she  thought  for  the  instant  that  she  was 


AV    IM1M  KATIVK    DUTY.  81 

telling  the  truth.  "  Xot  another  living  soul.  No  one 
ever  knew  but  your  uncle  —  " 

"  Be  careful,  Aunt  Caroline,"  said  the  girl,  coming 
up  to  her  sofa,  and  looking  gloomily  down  upon  her. 
"  You  had  better  always  tell  me  the  truth,  now.  Have 
you  told  no  one  else  ?  " 

"  No  one." 

"Not  Dr.  Olney?" 

It  was  too  late,  now  that  Mrs.  Meredith  perceived 
her  error.  She  could  not  draw  back  from  it,  and  say 
that  she  had  forgotten ;  Rhoda  would  never  believe 
that.  She  could  only  say,  "  Xo,  not  Dr.  Olney." 

"  Tell  me  the  truth,  if  you  expect  ever  to  see  me 
again,  in  this  world  or  the  next.  Is  it  the  truth? 
Swear  it !  " 

"  It  is  the  truth,"  said  the  poor  woman,  feeling  this 
new  and  astonishing  lie  triply  riveted  upon  her  soul  ; 
and  she  sank  down  upon  the  pillow  from  which  she 
had  partly  lifted  herself,  and  lay  there  as  if  crushed 
under  the  burden,  suddenly  rolled  back  upon  her. 

"  Then  I  forgive  you,"  said  the  girl,  stooping  down 
to  kiss  her. 

The  woman  pushed  her  feebly  away.  "  Oh,  I  don't 
want  your  forgiveness,  now,"  she  whimpered,  and  she 
began  to  cry. 

Rhoda  made  no  answer,  but  turned  and  went  out  of 
the  room. 

Mrs.  Meredith  lay  exhausted.  She  was  no  longer 
hungry,  but  she  was  weak  for  want  of  food.  After  a 
while  she  slid  from  the  sofa,  and  then  on  her  hands 


82  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

and  knees  she  crept  to  the  table  where  the  bottle  that 
held  Dr.  Olney's  sleeping  medicine  stood.  She  drank 
it  all  off.  She  felt  the  need  of  escaping  from  herself ; 
she  did  not  believe  it  would  kill  her ;  but  she  must 
escape  at  any  risk.  So  men  die  who  mean  to  take 
their  lives ;  but  it  is  not  certain  that  death  even  is  an 
escape  from  ourselves. 


VIII. 

IN  the  street  where  Rhoda  found  herself  the  gas 
win  already  palely  burning  in  the  shops,  and  the 
moony  glare  of  an  electric  globe  was  invading  the  flush 
of  the  sunset,  whose  after-glow  still  filled  the  summer 
air  in  the  western  perspective.  She  did  not  know 
where  she  was  going,  but  she  went  that  way,  down  the 
slope  of  the  slightly  curving  thoroughfare.  She  had 
the  letter  which  she  meant  to  post  in  her  hand,  but 
she  passed  the  boxes  on  the  lamp-posts  without  putting 
it  in.  She  no  longer  knew  what  else  she  meant  to  do, 
in  any  sort,  or  what  she  desired;  but  out  of  the  tur 
moil  of  horror,  which  she  whirled  round  and  round  in, 
some  purpose  that  seemed  at  first  exterior  to  herself 
began  to  evolve.  The  street  was  one  where  she  would 
hardly  have  met  ladies  of  the  sort  she  had  always  sup 
posed  herself  of ;  gentility  fled  it  long  ago,  and  the 
houses  that  had  once  been  middle-class  houses  had 
fallen  in  the  social  scale  to  the  grade  of  mechanics' 
lodgings,  and  the  shops,  which  had  never  been  fashion 
able,  were  adapted  strictly  to  the  needs  of  a  neighbor 
hood  of  poor  and  humble  people.  They  were  largely 
provision  stores,  full  of  fruit,  especially  watermelons ; 
there  were  some  groceries,  and  some  pharmacies  of 
that  professional  neatness  which  pharmacies  are  of 


84  A1ST    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

everywhere.  The  roadway  was  at  this  hour  pretty 
well  deserted  by  the  express  wagons  and  butcher 
carts  that  bang  through  it  in  the  earlier  day  ;  and  the 
horse-cars  coming  and  going  on  its  incline  and  its  final 
westward  level,  were  in  the  unrestricted  enjoyment  of 
the  company's  monopoly  of  the  best  part  of  its  space. 

At  the  first  corner  Rhoda  had  to  find  her  way 
through  groups  of  intense-faced  suburbans  who  were 
waiting  for  their  respective  cars,  and  who  heaped 
themselves  on  board  as  these  arrived,  and  hurried  to 
find  places,  more  from  force  of  habit  than  from  neces 
sity,  for  the  pressure  of  the  evening  travel  was  al 
ready  over.  When  she  had  passed  these  groups  she 
began  to  meet  the  proper  life  of  the  street  —  the 
women  who  had  come  out  to  cheapen  the  next  day's 
provisions  at  the  markets,  the  men,  in  the  brief  leisure 
that  their  day's  work  had  left  them  before  bedtime, 
lounging  at  the  lattice  doors  of  the  drinking-shops,  or 
standing  listlessly  about  on  the  curb-stones  smoking. 
Numbers  of  young  fellows,  of  the  sort  whose  leisure  is 
day-long,  exchanged  the  comfort  of  a  mutual  support 
with  the  house  walls,  and  stared  at  her  as  she  hurried 
by ;  and  then  she  began  to  encounter  in  greater  and 
greater  number  the  colored  people  who  descended  to 
this  popular  promenade  from  the  up-hill  streets  open 
ing  upon  it.  They  politely  made  way  for  her,  and  at 
the  first  meeting  that  new  agony  of  interest  in  them 
possessed  her. 

This  was  intensified  by  the  deference  they  paid  her 
as  a  young  white  lady,  and  the  instant  sense  that  she 


AN     Miri.KATlX  K     1>1   TV.  85 

had  no  right  to  it  in  that  quality.  She  could  have 
l.orne  hrtti-r  to  have  th«-iii  rude  ami  even  in>olcnt  ; 
there  \va>  Mnm-thinu  in  the  way  they  turned  their 
black  eyes  in  their  lar^v  di>ks  of  while  upon  her,  like 
dogs,  with  a  mute  animal  appeal  in  them,  that  seemed 
to  claim  her  one  of  tin  in.  and  to  creep  nearer  and 
nearer  and  pos-css  her  in  that  late-found  solidarity  of 
race.  She  never  knew  before  how  hideous  they  were, 
with  their  flat  wide-nostriled  noses,  their  out-rolled 
thick  lips,  their  mobile,  bulging  eyes  set  near  together, 
their  retreating  chins  and  forehead-,  and  their  smooth, 
shining  skin;  they  seemed  burlesques  of  humanity, 
worse  than  apes,  because  they  were  more  like.  But 
the  men  were  not  half  so  bad  as  the  women,  from  the 
shrill-piped  young  girls,  with  their  grotesque  attempts 
at  i'a>hion,  to  the  old  grandmothers,  wrinkled  or  obese, 
who  came  down  the  sloping  sidewalks  in  their  bare 
head-,  out  of  the  courts  and  alleys  where  they  lived, 
to  get  the  evening  air.  Impish  black  children  swarmed 
on  these  uphill  sidewalks,  an.d  played  their  g;inn-<, 
with  shrill  cries  racing  back  and  forth,  catching  and 
escaping  one  another. 

These  colored  folk  were  of  all  tints  and  types,  from 
the  comedy  of  the  pure  black  to  the  closest  tragical 
approach  to  white.  She  saw  one  girl,  walking  with  a 
cloud  of  sable  companions,  who  was  as  white  as  her 
self,  and  >ht-  \\onder.-dif  >he  \\vnj  of  the  same  dilution 
of  negro  blood ;  she  was  laughing  and  chattering  with 
the  rest,  and  seemed  to  feel  no  diii'erencr,  but  to  be 
pleased  and  Haltered  with  the  court  paid  her  by  the 
inky  dandy  who  sauntered  beside  her. 


86  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

"  She  has  always  known  it ;  she  has  never  felt  it !" 
she  thought  bitterly.  "  It  is  nothing  ;  it  is  natural  to 
her ;  I  might  have  been  like  her." 

She  began  to  calculate  how  many  generations  would 
carry  her  back,  or  that  girl  back,  in  hue,  to  the  black 
est  of  those  loathsome  old  women.  She  knew  what 
an  octoroon  was,  and  she  thought,  "  I  am  like  her, 
and  my  mother  was  darker,  and  my  grandmother 
darker,  and  my  great-grander  like  a  mulatto,  and  then 
it  was  a  horrible  old  negress,  a  savage  stolen  from 
Africa,  where  she  had  been  a  cannibal." 

A  vision  of  palm-tree  roofs  and  grass  huts,  as  she 
had  seen  them  in  pictures,  with  skulls  grinning  from 
the  eaves,  floated  before  her  eyes  ;  then  a  desert  with 
a  long  coffle  of  captives  passing  by,  and  one  black, 
naked  woman,  fallen  out  from  weakness,  kneeling, 
with  manacled  hands,  and  her  head  pulled  back,  and 
the  Arab  slaver's  knife  at  her  throat.  She  walked 
in  a  nightmare  of  these  sights  ;  all  the  horror  of  the 
wrong  by  which  she  "came  to  be,  poured  itself  round 
and  over  her. 

She  emerged  from  it  at  moments  with  a  refusal  to 
accept  the  loss  of  her  former  self,  like  that  of  the 
mutilated  man  who  looks  where  his  arm  was,  and  can 
not  believe  it  gone.  Like  him,  she  had  the  full  sense 
of  what  was  lost,  the  unbroken  consciousness  of  what 
was  lopped  away.  At  these  moments  all  her  pride  re 
asserted  itself ;  she  wished  to  punish  her  aunt  for 
what  she  had  made  her  suffer,  to  make  her  pay  pang 
for  pang.  Then  the  tide  of  reality  overwhelmed  her 


AN    IMl'ERATIVK    DUTY.  87 

again,  and  she  grovelled  in  self-loathing  ami  despair. 
Froiu  that  she  rose  in  a  fren/y  of  longing  to  rid  her 
self  of  this  shame  that  was  not  hers  ;  to  tear  out  the 
stain  ;  to  spill  it  with  the  last  drop  of  her  blood  upon 
the  ground.  By  flamy  impulses  she  thrilled  towards 
the  mastery  of  her  misery  through  its  open  acknowl 
edgment.  She  seemed  to  see  herself  and  hear  her 
self  stopping  some  of  these  revolting  creatures,  the 
dreadfulest  of  them,  and  saying,  "  I  am  black,  too. 
Take  me  home  with  you,  and  let  me  live  with  you, 
and  be  like  you  every  way."  She  thought,  "  Perhaps 
I  have  relations  among  them.  Yes,  it  must  be.  I 
will  send  to  the  hotel  for  my  things,  and  I  will  live 
here  in  some  dirty  little  back  court,  and  try  to  find 
them  out." 

The  emotions,  densely  pressing  upon  each  other, 
the  dramatizations  that  took  place  as  simultaneously 
and  insuccessively  as  the  events  of  a  dream,  gave  her 
a  new  measure  of  time ;  she  compassed  the  experience 
of  years  in  the  seconds  these  sensations  outnumbered. 

All  the  while  she  seemed  to  be  walking  swiftly,  fly 
ing  forward ;  but  the  ground  was  uneven  :  it  rose  be 
fore  her,  and  then  suddenly  fell.  She  felt  her  heart 
beat  in  the  middle  of  her  throat.  Her  head  felt  light, 
like  the  blowball  of  a  dandelion.  She  wished  to  laugh. 
There  seemed  two  selves  of  her,  one  that  lived  before 
that  awful  knowledge,  and  one  that  had  lived  as  long 
since,  and  again  a  third  that  knew  and  pitied  them 
both.  She  wondered  at  the  same  time  if  this  were 
what  people  meant  by  saying  one's  brain  was  turned; 


88  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

arid  she  recalled  the  longing  with  which  her  aunt  said, 
"  If  I  were  only  crazy  !  "  But  she  knew  that  her  own 
exaltation  was  not  madness,  and  she  did  not  wish  for 
escape  that  way.  "  There  must  be  some  other,"  she 
said  to  herself ;  "if  I  can  find  the  courage  for  it,  1 
can  find  the  way.  It's  like  a  ghost:  if  I  keep  going 
towards  it,  it  won't  hurt  me  ;  I  mustn't  be  afraid  of  it. 
Now,  let  me  see  !  What  ought  I  to  do  ?  Yes,  that  is 
the  key  :  Duty."  Then  her  thought  flew  passionately 
off.  "  If  she  had  done  her  duty  all  this  might  have 
been  helped.  But  it  was  her  cowardice  that  made  her 
murder  me.  Yes,  she  has  killed  me !  " 

The  tears  gushed  into  her  eyes,  and  all  the  bitter 
ness  of  her  trial  returned  upon  her,  with  a  pressure  of 
lead  on  her  brain. 

In  the  double  consciousness  of  trouble  she  was  as 
fully  aware  of  everything  about  her  as  she  was  of  the 
world  of  misery  within  her ;  and  she  knew  that  this 
had  so  far  shown  itself  without  that  some  of  the  pas 
sers  were  noticing  her.  She  stopped,  fearful  of  their 
notice,  at  the  corner  of  the  street  she  had  come  to, 
and  turned  about  to  confront  an  old  colored  woman, 
yellow  like  saffron,  with  the  mild,  sad  face  we  often 
see  in  mulattoes  of  that  type,  and  something  peculiarly 
pitiful  in  the  straight  underlip  of  her  appealing  mouth, 
and  the  cast  of  her  gentle  eyes.  The  expression  might 
have  been  merely  physical,  or  it  might  have  been  an 
hereditary  look,  and  no  part  of  her  own  personality, 
but  Rhoda  felt  safe  in  it. 

"  What  street  is  this  ?  "    she   asked,  thinking  sud- 


AN    IMI'KKATIVE    DUTY.  89 

denly,  "  She  is  the  color  of  my  grandmother  ;  that  is 
the  way  she  looked ;  "  but  though  she  thought  this  she 
did  not  realize  it,  and  she  kept  an  imperious  attitude 
towards  the  old  woman. 

«  Charles  Street,  lady." 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  Charles.  Where  are  all  the  people 
going?  " 

"  The  colored  folks,  lady  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  "Well,  lady,  they's  a  kyind  of  an  evenin'  meetin'  at 
ouah  choach  to-night.  Some  of  'em's  goin'  there,  I 
reckon  ;  some  of  'em's  just  out  fo'  a  walk." 

"  Will  you  let  me  go  with  you  ?  "  Rhoda  asked. 

••  Why,  certainly,  lady,"  said  the  old  woman.  She 
glanced  up  at  Rhoda's  face  as  the  girl  turned  to  ac 
company  her.  "  But  Tm  a-goin*  to  choach." 

"  Yes,  yes.  That's  what  I  mean.  I  want  to  go  to 
your  church  with  you.  Are  you  from  the  South  — 
Louisiana?  She  would  be  the  color,"  she  thought. 
"  It  might  be  my  mother's  own  mother." 

"  No,  lady  :  from  Voginny.  I  was  bawn  a  slave ; 
and  I  lived  there  till  after  the  wa'.  Then  I  come 
Nawth." 

"  Oh,"  said  Rhoda,  disappointedly,  for  she  had 
nerved  herself  to  find  this  old  woman  her  grand 
mother. 

They  walked  on  lii  silence  for  a  while ;  then  the  old 
woman  said,  "  I  thought  you  wasn't  very  well,  when  I 
noticed  you  at  the  cawnah." 

'•I  am  well,"    Rhoda   answered,   feeling   the  tears 


90  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

start  to  her  eyes  again  at  the  note  of  motherly  kind 
ness  in  the  old  woman's  voice.  u  But  I  am  in  trouble  ; 
I  am  in  trouble." 

"  Then  you're  gwine  to  the  right  place,  lady,"  said 
the  old  woman,  and  she  repeated  solemnly  these  words 
of  hope  and  promise  which  so  many  fainting  hearts 
have  stayed  themselves  upon  :  "  (  Come  unto  me,  all  ye 
that  labor  and  are  heavy  laden,  and  I  will  give  you  rest 
unto  your  souls.'  Them's  the  words,  lady ;  the  Lawd's 
own  words.  Glory  be  to  God  ;  glory  be  to  God !  " 
she  added  in  a  whisper. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Rhoda,  impatiently.  "  They  are 
good  words.  But  they  are  not  for  me.  He  can't 
make  my  burden  light;  He  can't  give  me  rest.  If  it 
were  sin,  He  could ;  but  it  isn't  sin  ;  it's  something 
worse  than  sin ;  more  hopeless.  If  I  were  only  a  sin 
ner,  the  vilest,  the  wickedest,  how  glad  I  should  be !  " 
Her  heart  uttered  itself  to  this  simple  nature  as  freely 
as  a  child  to  its  mother. 

"  Why,  sholy,  lady,"  said  the  old  woman,  with  a 
little  shrinking  from  her  as  if  she  had  blasphemed, 
"  sholy  you's  a  sinnah  ?  " 

"  No,  I  am  not !  "  said  the  girl,  with  nervous  sharp 
ness.  "  If  I  were  a  sinner,  my  sins  could  be  forgiven 
me,  and  I  could  go  free  of  my  burden.  But  nothing 
can  ever  lift  it  from  me." 

"  The  Lawd  can  do  anything,  the  Bible  says.  He 
kin  make  the  /lead  come  to  life.  He  done  it  oncet, 
too." 

The  girl  turned  abruptly  on  her.  "  Can  He  change 
your  skin  ?  Can  He  make  black  white  ?  " 


AN     IMI'l.KA  TIVi:     IH'TV.  91 

The  old  woman  seemed  dauim -d  ;  she  faltered.  "  1 
don't  know  as  he  ever  tried,  lady  ;  the  Bible  don't 
tell."  She  added,  more  hopefully,  "  But  I  reckon  He 
could  do  it  if  lie  wanted  to." 

''Then  why  doesn't  lie  do  it?"  demanded  the  girl. 
"  What  does  He  leave  you  black  for,  when  He  could 
make  you  white  ?  " 

f'l  reckon  He  don't  think  it's  worth  while,  if  He 
can  make  me  willing  to  be  black  so  easy.  Somebody's 
got  to  be  black,  and  it  might  as  well  be  me,"  said  the 
old  woman,  with  a  meek  sigh. 

**  Xo,  no  one  need  be  black !  "  said  Rhoda,  with  a 
vehemence  that  this  submissive  sigh  awakened  in  her. 
"  If  He  cared  for  us,  no  one  would  be !  " 

"  Sh !  "  said  the  old  woman,  gently. 

They  had  reached  the  church  porch,  and  Rhoda 
found  herself  in  the  tide  of  black  worshippers  who 
were  drifting  in.  The  faces  of  some  were  supernat- 
urally  solemn,  and  these  rolled  their  large-whited  eyes 
rebukingly  on  the  young  girls  showing  all  their  teeth 
in  the  smiles  that  gashed  them  from  ear  to  ear,  and 
carrying  on  subdued  flirtations  with  the  polite  young 
fellows  escorting  them.  It  was  no  doubt  the  best  col 
ored  society,  and  it  was  bearing  itself  with  propriety 
and  self-respect  in  the  court  of  the  temple.  If  their 
natural  gayety  and  lightness  of  heart  moved  their 
youth  to  the  betrayal  of  their  pleasure  in  each  other  in 
the  presence  of  their  Maker,  He  was  perhaps  propi 
tiated  by  the  gloom  of  their  elders. 

"'Tain't  a  regular  evenin'  meetin',"  Rhoda's  com- 


92  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

panion  explained  to  her.  It's  a  kind  o'  lecture."  She 
exchanged  some  stately  courtesies  of  greeting  with  the 
old  men  and  women  as  they  pushed  into  the  church ; 
they  called  her  sister,  and  they  looked  with  at  least 
as  little  surprise  and  offence  at  the  beautiful  young 
white  lady  with  her  as  white  Christians  would  have 
shown  a  colored  girl  come  to  worship  with  them. 
"  De  preacher's  one  o'  the  Southern  students ;  I 
ain't  hud  him  speak;  but  I  reckon  the  Lawd's  sent 
him,  anyway." 

Rhoda  had  no  motive  in  being  where  she  was  except 
to  confront  herself  as  fully  and  closely  with  the  trouble 
in  her  soul  as  she  could.  She  thought,  so  far  as 
such  willing  may  be  called  thinking,  that  she  could 
strengthen  herself  for  what  she  had  henceforth  to  bear, 
if  she  could  concentrate  and  intensify  the  fact  to  her 
outward  perception ;  she  wished  densely  to  surround 
herself  with  the  blackness  from  which  she  had  sprung, 
and  to  reconcile  herself  to  it,  by  realizing  and  owning 
it  with  every  sense. 

She  did  not  know  what  the  speaker  was  talking 
about  at  first,  but  phrases  and  words  now  and  then 
caught  in  her  consciousness.  He  was  entirely  black, 
and  he  was  dressed  in  black  from  head  to  foot,  so  that 
he  stood  behind  the  pulpit  light  like  a  thick,  soft 
shadow  cast  upon  the  wall  by  an  electric.  His  abso 
lute  sable  was  relieved  only  by  the  white  points  of  his 
shirt-collar,  and  the  glare  of  his  spectacles,  which,  when 
the  light  struck  them,  heightened  the  goblin  effect  of 
his  presence.  He  had  no  discernible  features,  and 


AX    IMI'KKA  I  1\  K    DUTY.  93 

when  he  turned  his  profile  in  addressing  those  who  sat 
:it  tin-  >ide-.  it  was  only  a  wavering  hlur  against  the 
wall.  Hi-  void*  \vas  rich  and  tender,  \vith  those  ca- 
ivv-ing  notes  in  it  \vhieh  are  the  peculiar  gift  of  his 

race. 

The  lecture  opened  with  prayer  and  >inging,  and 
the  lecturer  took  part  in  the  singing;  then  he  began 
to  speak,  and  Khoda's  mind  to  wander,  with  her 
eyes,  to  the  congregation.  The  prevailing  blackness 
gave  back  the  light  here  and  there  in  the  glint  of  a 
bald  head,  or  from  a  patch  of  white  wool,  or  the  cast 
(.1  a  i<>l!iim  eye.  Inside  of  the  bonnets  of  the  elder 
women,  and  under  the  gay  hats  of  the  young  girls,  it 
was  mostly  lost  in  a  charaeterle.-s  dark  ;  but  nearer  by, 
Khoda  distinguished  faces,  sad,  repulsive  visages  of  a 
frog-like  ugliness  added  to  the  repulsive  black  in  all 
its  .-.hade>,  from  the  unalloyed  brilliancy  ot  the  pure 
negro  type  to  the  pallid  yellow  of  the  quadroon,  and 
these  mixed  bloods  were  more  odious  to  ber  than  the 
others,  because  she  felt  herself  more  akin  to  them ;  but 
they  were  all  abhorrent.  Some  of  the  elder  people 
made  fervent  responses  to  thoughts  and  sentiments 
in  the  lecture  as  if  it  had  been  a  sermon.  u  That 
is  so ! "  they  said.  "  Bless  the  Lord,  that's  the 
truth!"  and  "Glory  to  God!"  One  old  woman, 
who  sat  in  the  same  line  of  pews  witli  Khoda, 
opened  her  mouth  like  a  eatlUh.  to  emit  the>e  pious 
ejaculations. 

The  lii-lit  wa-  warm,  and  as  tin-  church  filled,  the 
musky  exhalations  of  their  bodies  thickened  tlie  air. 


94  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

and  made  the  girl  faint ;  it  seemed  to  her  that  she 
began  to  taste  the  odor ;  and  these  poor  people,  whom 
their  Creator  has  made  so  hideous  by  the  standards  of 
all  his  other  creatures,  roused  a  cruel  loathing  in  her, 
which  expressed  itself  in  a  frantic  refusal  of  their 
claim  upon  her.  In  her  heart  she  cast  them  off  with 
vindictive  hate.  "  Yes,"  she  thought,  "  I  should  have 
whipped  them,  too.  They  are  animals  ;  they  are  only 
fit  to  be  slaves."  But  when  she  shut  her  eyes,  and 
heard  their  wild,  soft  voices,  her  other  senses  were 
holden,  and  she  was  rapt  by  the  music  from  her 
frenzy  of  abhorrence.  In  one  of  these  suspenses, 
while  she  sat  listening  to  the  sound  of  the  lecturer's 
voice,  which  now  and  then  struck  a  plangent  note, 
like  some  rich,  melancholy  bell,  a  meaning  began  to 
steal  out  of  it  to  her  whirling  thoughts. 

"Yes,  my  friends,"  it  went  on  saying,  "you  got  to 
commence  doing  a  person  good  if  you  expect  to  love 
them  as  Jesus  loved  us  when  he  died  for  us.  And 
oh,  if  our  white  brethren  could  only  understand  — 
and  they're  gettin'  to  understand  it  —  that  if  they 
would  help  us  a  little  more,  they  needn't  hate  us 
so  much,  what  a  great  thing,"  the  lecturer  lamely 
concluded  — "  what  a  great  thing  it  would  be  all 
round ! " 

"  Amen !  Love's  the  thing,"  said  the  voice  of  the 
old  woman  with  the  catfish  mouth ;  and  Rhoda,  who 
did  not  see  her,  did  not  shudder.  Her  response  in 
spired  the  lecturer  to  go  on.  "  I  believe  it's  the  one 
way  out  of  all  the  trouble  in  this  world.  You  can't 


\\     IM1T.KATIVK     1)1  TV.  95 

fight  y"".r  W:ly  out,  and  you  can't  steal  your  \vay  out, 
and  you  can't  lie  your  way  out.  But  you  can  love 
your  way  out.  And  how  can  you  love  your  way  out? 
Hy  helpin*  somebody  else !  Yes,  that's  it.  Somebody 
that  needs  your  help.  And  now  if  there's  any  one 
here  that's  in  trouble,  and  wants  to  get  out  of  trouble, 
all  he's  got  to  do  is  to  help  somebody  else  out.  Re 
member  that  when  the  collection  is  taken  up  durin' 
the  singin'  of  the  hymn.  Our  college  needs  help,  and 
every  person  that  helps  our  college  helps  himself. 
Let  us  pray  !  " 

The  application  was  apt  enough,  and  Rhoda  did  not 
feel  anything  grotesque  in  it.  She  put  into  the  plate 
which  the  old  woman  passed  to  her  from  the  collector 
all  the  money  she  had  in  her  purse,  notes  and  silver, 
and  two  or  three  gold  pieces  that  had  remained  over 
to  her  from  her  European  travel.  Her  companion  saw 
tli'  in,  and  interrupted  herself  in  her  singing  to  say, 
"The  Lawd  '11  bless  it  to  you;  He'll  help  them  that 
helps  them  that  can't  help  themselv«'>." 

*'  Yes,  that  is  the  clew,"  the  girl  said  to  herself. 
"  That  is  the  way  out ;  the  only  way.  I  can  endure 
tlieni  if  I  can  love  them,  and  I  shall  love  them  if  I  try 
to  help  them.  This  money  will  help  them." 

But  she  did  not  venture  to  look  around  at  the 
objects  of  her  beneficence  ;  she  was  afraid  that  the 
sight  of  their  faces  would  harden  her  heart  against 
them  in  spite  of  her  giving,  and  she  kept  her  eyes  shut, 
listening  to  their  pathetic  voices.  She  stood  forgetful 
after  the  lecturer  had  pronounced  the  benediction  — > 
7 


96  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

he  was  a  divinity  student,  and  he  could  not  forego 
it  —  and  her  companion  had  to  touch  her  arm.  Then 
she  started  with  a  shiver,  as  if  from  a  hypnotic 
trance. 

Once  out  on  the  street  she  was  afraid,  and  begged 
the  old  woman  to  go  back  to  her  hotel  with  her. 

"  Why,  sholy,  lady,"  she  consented. 

But  Rhoda  did  not  hear.  Her  mind  had  begun 
suddenly  to  fasten  itself  upon  a  single  thought,  a  sole 
purpose,  and  "  Yes,"  she  pondered,  "  that  is  the  first 
thing  of  all  ;  to  forgive  her  ;  to  tell  her  that  I  forgive 
her,  and  that  I  understand  and  pity  her.  But  how  — 
how  shall  I  begin  ?  I  shall  have  to  do  her  some  good 
to  begin  with,  and  how  can  I  do  that  when  I  hate  her 
so  ?  I  do  hate  her ;  I  do  hate  her !  It  is  her 
fault !  " 

As  she  hurried  along,  almost  running,  and  heedless 
of  the  old  woman  at  her  side,  trying  to  keep  up  with 
her,  it  seemed  to  her  that  if  her  aunt  had  told  her  long 
ago,  when  a  child,  what  she  was,  she  would  somehow 
not  have  been  it  now. 

It  was  not  with  love,  not  with  pardon,  but  with 
frantic  hate  and  accusal  in  her  heart,  that  she  burst 
into  the  room,  and  rushed  to  Mrs.  Meredith's  sofa, 
where  she  lay  still. 

"  Aunt  Caroline,  wake  up !  Can  you  sleep  when 
you  see  me  going  perfectly  crazy?  It  is  no  time  for 
sleeping !  Wake  !  " 

The  moony  pallor  of  an  electric  light  suspended 
over  the  street  shone  in  through  the  naked  window 


AN    IMPF.RATIVK    DITV.  97 

and  fell  upon  Mrs.  Meredith's  face.  It  was  white, 
and  as  the  girl  started  back  her  foot  struck  the  empty 
bottle  from  which  the  woman  had  drained  the  sleeping 
medicine,  and  let  lie  where  she  had  let  it  fall  upon 
the  floor,  llhoda  caught  it  up,  and  flew  with  it  to 
the  light. 


IX. 

THE  thing  that  had  been  lurking  in  a  dark  corner 
of  Olney's  mind,  intangible  if  not  wholly  invisible, 
came  out  sensible  to  touch  and  sight  when  he  parted 
with  Mrs.  Meredith.  At  first  it  masqueraded  a  little 
longer  as  resentment  of  that  hapless  creature's  fate,  a 
creature  so  pretty,  so  proud,  and  by  all  the  rights  of 
her  youth  and  sex  heiress  of  a  prosperous  and  un 
clouded  future,  the  best  love  and  the  tenderest  care 
that  any  man  could  give  her.  Then  it  began  to  de 
clare  itself  a  fear  lest  the  man  whose  avowal  had  given 
him  the  right  to  know  everything  concerning  her, 
might  prove  superior  to  it,  and  nobly  renounce  his 
privilege,  and  gladly  take  her  for  what  she  had  always 
seemed,  for  what,  except  in  so  remote  degree,  she 
really  was.  Then  Olney  knew  that  he  was  himself  in 
love  with  her,  and  that  he  was  judging  a  rival's  possi 
bilities  by  his  own,  and  dreading  them.  He  had  an 
impulse  to  go  back  to  Mrs.  Meredith  and  say  that  he 
was  ready  to  take  all  those  risks  and  chances  which 
she  had  counted  so  great,  and  laugh  them  to  scorn  in 
the  gladness  of  his  heart  if  he  could  only  hope  that 
Rhoda  would  ever  love  him.  A  few  years  before  he 
would  have  obeyed  his  impulse,  and  even  now  he 
dramatized  an  obedience  to  it,  and  exacted  from  Mrs. 


AX    I.M1M  I;A  1  IVK    DUTY.  99 

Meredith  a  promise  that  >lir  would  not  speak  to  Miss 
Aldgate  until  he  had  found  time  to  put  his  fortune  to 
the  touch,  and  it'  he  won,  would  never  speak  to  her. 
But  at  thirty  he  hud  his  hesitations,  his  misgivings, 
not  indeed  as  to  "the  wish,  but  as  to  the  way.  For 
one  thing,  lie  was  too  late,  if  Mrs.  Meredith's  con 
jectures  were  right ;  and  for  another,  he  felt  it  dis 
honorable  to  do  what  he  longed  in  his  heart  to  do,  and 
steal  from  this  man,  whom  he  began  to  hate,  the  love 
upon  which  his  courageous  wooing  had  given  him  the 
right  to  count.  Such  a  thing  would  be  not  theft  only 
in  the  possible  but  not  probable  case  she  did  not  euro 
for  his  rival,  and  he  had  no  means  of  knowing  the 
fact  as  to  that.  It  might  be  defended  if  not  justified 
on  the  ground  that  he  wished  to  keep  her  forever  in 
ignorance  of  what  it  was  Mrs.  Meredith's  clear  duty 
otherwise  to  tell  her;  Olney  comforted  liiinself  with 
the  theory  that  a  woman  who  had  d« -laved  in  her  duty 
so  long  would  doubtless  put  it  oH"  till  the  last  moment, 
and  that  until  this  Mr.  Bloomingdale  actually  appeared, 
and  there  was  no  loop-hole  left  her,  she  would  not 
cease  attempting  to  escape  from  her  duty. 

He  postponed  any  duty  which  he  himself  had  in  the 
matter  through  the  love  he  now  owned  ;  he  made  it 
contingent  upon  hers  ;  but  all  the  same,  he  determined 
to  forego  no  right  it  gave  him.  Again  he  had  a  mind 
to  go  back  to  Mrs.  Meredith,  and  ask  her  to  do  noth 
ing  until  Bloomingdale  came,  and  then,  before  she 
spoke,  to  authorize  him  to  approach  the  man  as  her 
family  physician  and  deal  tentatively,  hypothetically, 


100  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

with  the  matter,  and  interpret  his  probable  decision 
from  his  actual  behavior. 

This  course,  which  appeared  the  only  course  open 
to  him,  commended  itself  more  and  more  to  Olney  as 
he  thought  of  it ;  here  was  something  practicable, 
here  was  something  that  was  perhaps  even  obligatory 
upon  him;  he  tried  to  believe  it  was  obligatory.  But 
it  occurred  to  him  only  after  long  turmoil  of  thinking 
and  feeling  in  other  directions,  and  it  was  half-past 
seven  o'clock  before  he  returned  from  a  walk  he  took 
as  a  final  means  of  clearing  his  mind,  and  went  to 
Mrs.  Meredith's  room  to  propose  it  to  her.  He 
knocked  several  times  without  response,  and  then 
went  to  the  office  to  see  if  she  had  gone  out  and  left 
her  key  with  the  clerk ;  he  was  now  in  a  hurry  to 
speak  to  her. 

The  clerk  felt  in  the  pigeon-hole  of  Mrs.  Meredith's 
number.  "  Her  key  isn't  here,  but  that's  no  sign  she 
hasn't  gone  out.  Ladies  seldom  leave  their  keys 
when  they  go  out ;  we're  only  too  glad  if  they  leave 
'em  when  they  go  away  for  good.  I  thought  she  was 
sick." 

"  She  would  be  able  to  drive  out." 
Olney  mastered  his  impatience  as  well  as  he  could, 
and  went  in  to  his  dinner.  After  dinner  he  knocked 
again  at  Mrs.  Meredith's  door,  and  confirmed  himself 
in  the  belief  that  she  had  gone  out.  After  that  it 
was  not  so  easy  to  wait  for  her  to  come  back.  He 
wished  to  remain  of  the  mind  he  had  been  about 
speaking  to  her  of  Rhoda,  and  to  avow  himself  her 


AN    IMl'KKATIVi-:    !»'    :  V.  } '•  •  \ 

lover  at  nil  risk-.  l>ut  more  and  more  he  began  to  feel 
that  lie  W&a  too  late,  that  he  was  quixotic,  that  he  was 
ridiculous.  He  felt  himself  wavering  from  his  purpose, 
and  he  held  to  it  all  the  more  tenaciously  for  that 
reason.  If  he  was  willing  to  hazard  all  upon  the 
chance  of  being  in  time,  that  gave  him  the  right  to 
ask  that  the  girl  might  be  spared ;  but  when  he 
thought  she  and  Mrs.  Meredith  were  probably  spend 
ing  the  evening  together  with  the  Bloomingdales,  his 
courage  failed.  It  was  but  too  imaginable  that  Miss 
Aldgate  had  made  up  her  mind  to  accept  that  man, 
and  that  her  aunt  would  tell  her  all  that  he  longed  to 
save  her  from  knowing  before  he  could  prevent  it. 

When  at  la-t  lie  went  a  third  time  to  her  door,  he 
ventured  to  turn  the  knob,  and  the  door  opened  to  his 
inward  pressure.  It  let  in  with  him  a  glare  of  gas 
from  the  lamp  in  the  entry,  and  by  this  light  he  saw 
Rhoda  standing  beside  her  aunt's  sofa  with  the  empty 
bottle  in  her  hand.  She  had  her  hat  on,  and  at  the 
face  she  turned  him  across  her  shoulder,  a  shiver  of 
prescience  passed  over  him.  It  was  the  tragic  mask, 
the  inherited  woe,  unlit  by  a  gleam  of  the  bright  in  •— 
which  had  sometimes  seemed  Heaven's  direct  gift  to 
the  girl  on  whom  that  burden  of  ancestral  sin  and  sor 
row  had  descend**!. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  he  murmured. 

Rhoda  gave  him  the  empt\  bottle.  "  She's  drunk 
it  all.  She's  dead." 

"Oh,  no,"  he  almost  laughed.  "It  would  be  too 
soon."  He  dropped  on  his  knees  beside  the  insensi- 


I'Jl!  .iN'    IMP'KRATIVK    DUTY. 

ble  body,  and  satisfied  himself  by  pulse  and  breath 
that  the  life  had  not  yet  left  it.  But  to  keep  it  there 
was  now  the  business,  and  Gluey  began  his  losing 
fight  with  a  sort  of  pluriscience  in  which  it  seemed  to 
him  that  he  was  multiplied  into  three  selves  :  one  ap 
plying  all  the  antidotes  and  using  all  the  professional 
skill  with  instant  coolness ;  another  guarding  the 
probable  suicide  from  the  conjecture  of  the  hotel 
servants  and  keeping  the  whole  affair  as  silent  as  pos 
sible  ;  another  devotedly  vigilant  of  the  poor  girl  who 
was  so  deeply  concerned  in  the  small  chances  of  success 
perceptible  to  Olney,  and  who,  whether  he  succeeded 
or  not,  was  destined  to  so  sad  an  orphanage.  When 
he  thought  of  the  chance  that  fate  was  invisibly  offer 
ing  her,  he  almost  wished  he  might  fail,  but  he  fought 
his  battle  through  with  relentless  scientific  conscience. 
At  the  end  it  was  his  part  to  say,  "  It's  over  ;  she's 
dead." 

"  I  knew  she  was,"  Rhoda  answered  apathetically. 
"I  expected  it." 

"  Where  were  you  ?  "  he  asked,  with  the  sort  of  sad 
futility  with  which,  when  all  is  done,  the  spirit  con 
tinues  its  endeavor.  "  Was  she  alone  ?  " 

"  Yes.     I  had  gone  out,"  Rhoda  said. 

"  What  time  was  that  ?  "  Olney  wondered  that  he 
had  not  asked  this  before ;  perhaps  he  had  made  some 
mistake  through  not  having  verified  the  moment. 

"  It  was  about  half-past  seven,"  answered  the  girl. 

"  You  went  out  at  half-past  seven  I  And  when  did 
you  return  ?  " 


AX    IMPERATIVE    DUTY.  l«i;! 

"  We  had  a  quarrel.  I  didn't  come  back  till  nearly 
ten  —  when  you  came  in." 

The  poignancy  of  Olney's  interest  remained,  but  it 
took  another  direction.  "  You  were  out  all  the  even 
ing  alone  ?  Excuse  my  asking,"  he  made  haste  to 
add,  "  But  I  don't  understand  —  " 

'•  I  wasn't  alone,"  said  Rhoda.  "  I  met  an  old  col 
ored  woman  on  the  street,  and  she  went  with  me  to 
the  colored  church.  She  came  home  with  me."  The 
girl  said  this  quietly,  as  if  there  were  nothing  at  all 
strange  in  it. 

Her  calm  left  Olney  in  the  question  which  he  was 
always  pressing  home  to  himself;  whether  her  aunt 
had  told  her  that  thing.  It  was  on  his  tongue  to  ask 
her  whv  she  went  to  the  colored  church,  and  what  her 
quarrel  with  her  aunt  was  about.  He  asked  her  in 
stead,  "  Did  you  think,  when  you  left  her,  that  Mrs. 
Meredith  seemed  different  at  all  —  that  —  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  notice,"  said  Rhoda.  "  No.  She  seemed 
as  she  often  did.  But  I  know  she  thought  she  hadn't 
taken  enough  of  the  medicine.  She  wanted  to  sleep 
more." 

Rhoda  sat  by  the  window  of  the  little  parlor  where 
she  had  sat  when  the  dead  woman  had  told  her  that 
dreadful  thing,  and  she  remembered  how  she  had 
glanced  out  of  it  and  seen  Olney  in  the  street.  The 
gas  was  now  at  full  blaze  in  the  room,  but  she  glanced 
through  the  window  again,  and  saw  that  the  day  wa- 
beginning  to  come  outside.  She  turned  from  the  chill 
of  its  pale  light,  and  looked  at  Olney.  Through  the 


104  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

irresistible  association  of  ideas,  she  looked  for  his 
baldness  with  the  lack-lustre  eyes  she  lifted  to  his 
face. 

"  Is  there  anything  you  wish  me  —  anything  I  can 
do  ?  "  he  asked,  after  a  silence,  in  which  he  got  back 
to  the  level  of  practical  affairs,  though  still  stupefied 
from  what  Rhoda  had  said. 

"  No." 

"  I  mean,  notify  your  friends  —  your  family  —  tele 
graph  - 

"  I  have  no  friends  —  no  relatives.  We  were  alone  ; 
all  our  family  are  dead." 

"  But  Mr.  Meredith's  family  —  there  is  surely  some 
one  that  you  can  call  upon  at  this  time." 

A  strong  compassion  swelled  in  Olney's  heart ;  he 
yearned  to  take  her  in  his  arms  and  be  all  the  world 
to  one  who  had  no  one  in  all  the  world. 

She  remained  as  if  dazed,  and  then  she  said,  with  a 
perplexed  look  :  "  I  was  trying  to  think  who  there 
was.  Mr.  Meredith's  people  lived  in  St.  Louis  ;  I  re 
member  some  of  them  when  I  was  little.  Perhaps  my 
aunt  would  have  their  address." 

She  went  into  the  adjoining  chamber  where  the 
dead  woman  lay,  in  the  atmosphere  of  useless  drugs 
and  effectless  antidotes,  and  Oln-ey  thought,  "It's  the 
mechanical  operation  of  custom ;  she's  going  to  ask 
her,"  but  Rhoda  came  back  with  an  address-book  in 
her  hand,  as  if  she  had  gone  directly  to  Mrs.  Mere 
dith  s  writing  case  for  it  with  no  such  error  of  cere 
bration. 


AN    IMPERATIVE    hi 'TV.  105 

"Hen-  it  is,"  >he   said. 

"  Very  well.  I'll  telegraph  them  at  once.  But  in 
the  mean  time,  what  will  you  do,  Miss  Aldgate  ?  You 
can't  stav  here  in  the  hotel  —  she  can't.  How  can  I  be 
of  use  to  you?"  Olney  felt  all  the  disinterestedness 
in  the  world  in  asking,  but  in  what  lie  a>ke<l  m-xt  he 
had  a  distinct  consciousness  of  self-interest,  or  at  lea>t 
of  selfish  curiosity.  "  Shall  I  let  your  friends  at  the 
Vendome  —  " 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  no !  "  she  broke  out.  "  Not  on  any 
account !  I  couldn't  bear  to  see  them.  Don't  think 
of  such  a  thing !  No,  indeed,  I  can't  let  you  !  " 

The  self-seeker  is  never  fully  rewarded,  and  Olney 
was  left  with  a  doubt  whether  this  reluctance  meant 
abhorrence  of  the  Blooiningdales,  or  unwillingness  to 
receive  kindness  from  them  which  might  involve  some 
loss  of  her  perfect  independence  to  the  spirited  girl ; 
she  would  not  choose  or  be  chosen  for  any  reason  but 
one.  He  could  not  make  out  from  her  manner  as  yet 
whether  her  aunt  had  spoken  what  was  on  her  mind  to 
speak  or  not;  it  seemed  such  a  cruel  invasion  of  her 
rights  even  to  conjecture,  that  he  tried  to  put  the 
question  out  of  his  thoughts. 

He  began  again  while  he  was  sensible  of  an  unequal 
struggle  with  the  question,  which  intruded  itself  in  the 
swift  whirl  of  his  anxieties,  as  to  what  could  immedi 
ately  be  done  for  her. 

"  Is  there  anything  else  you  would  suggest?  " 

"  No,"  said  the  girl,  in  the  div:un\  quiet  she  seemed 
helpless  to  emerge  from.  '•  I  suppose  it  wouldn't  do, 


106  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

even  if  we  could  find  her.  I  was  thinking  of  the  old 
woman  I  saw  to-night,"  she  explained.  "  I  would  like 
to  go  and  stay  with  her  if  I  could." 

"  Is  it  some  one  you  know  ?  " 

"No,  I  don't  know  her.  I  just  met  her  on  the 
street,  and  we  went  to  the  colored  people's  church 
together.  I  went  out  after  dinner  and  left  my  aunt 
alone.  That  was  when  she  drank  it." 

She  added  the  vague  sentences  together  with  a 
child's  heedlessness  as  to  their  reaching  her  listener's 
intelligence,  and  she  did  not  persist  in  her  whimsical 
suggestion. 

Olney  left  it  too.  "  You  must  let  me  get  you  an 
other  room,"  he  said;  "You  can't  stay  here  any 
longer,"  and  he  made  her  take  her  hat  and  come  with 
him  to  the  hotel  parlor.  He  went  to  arrange  the 
business  with  the  clerk,  and  to  tell  him  of  Mrs.  Mere 
dith's  death ;  then  he  had  to  go  about  other  duties 
connected  with  the  case,  which  he  rather  welcomed  as 
a  distraction  ;  to  notify  the  fact  and  cause  of  Mrs. 
Meredith's  death  to  the  authorities,  and  to  give  the 
funeral  preparations  in  charge.  But  when  this  was 
all  done,  and  he  could  no  longer  play  off  the  aggregate 
of  these  minor  cares  against  his  great  one,  he  began  to 
be  harassed  again  about  Miss  Aldgate. 


IT  was  so  mucn  easier  to  dispose  of  the  friendless 
dead  than  the  friendless  living,  Olney  thought,  with 
a  sardonic  perception  of  one  of  the  bitterest  truths 
in  the  world ;  and  he  was  not  consoled  by  the  reflec 
tion  that  it  is  often  the  man  readiest  to  do  all  for  a 
woman  who  can  do  nothing  for  her.  At  the  same  time 
he  hurried  along  imagining  a  scene  in  which  Rhoda 
owned  her  love  for  him,  and  for  his  sake  and  her  own, 
consented  to  throw  convention  to  the  winds,  and  to 
unite  her  fate  with  his  in  a  marriage  truly  solemnized 
by  the  presence  of  death.  He  was  aroused  from  this 
preposterous  melodrama  by  a  voice  that  said,  with 
liking  and  astonishment,  "  Why,  Dr.  Olney !  "  and  he 
found  himself  confronted  with  Mrs.  Atherton,  whom 
he  had  known  as  Miss  Clara  Kingsbury.  In  another 
moment  she  had  flooded  him  with  inquiry  and  explana 
tion,  from  which  he  emerged  with  the  dim  conscious 
ness  that  he  had  told  her  how  he  happened  not  to  be 
in  Florence,  and  had  heard  how  she  happened  to  be  in 
Boston.  Her  presence  in  the  city  at  such  an  untimely 
season  was  to  be  accounted  for  by  the  eccentric  spirit 
in  which  she  carried  on  her  visiting  for  the  Associated 
Charities ;  she  visited  her  families  in  the  summer, 
while  most  people  looked  after  their  families  only  in 


108  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

the  winter.  She  excused  herself  by  saying  that  Bev 
erly  was  so  near,  and  sometimes  it  gave  her  a  chance 
for  a  little  bohemian  lunch  with  Mr.  Atherton. 

Olney  laid  his  trouble  before  her.  IIo  knew  from 
of  old  that  if  he  could  not  count  upon  her  tact,  he 
could  count  upon  her  imagination,  and  he  was  quite 
prepared  for  the  sympathy  with  which  she  rushed  to 
his  succor,  a  sympathy  that  in  spite  of  the  circum 
stances  could  not  be 'called  less  than  jubilant. 

"  Why,  the  poor,  forlorn,  little  helpless  creature!  '' 
she  exulted.  "  I'll  go  to  the  hotel  at  once  with  you, 
doctor ;  and  she  must  come  down  to  Beverly  with  me, 
and  stay  till  her  friends  come  on  for  her." 

The  question  whether  he  was  not  bound  in  honor  to 
tell  Mrs.  Atherton  just  what  Miss  Aldgate  was,  crazily 
visited  him,  and  became  a  kind  of  longing  before  he 
could  rid  himself  of  it ;  he  dismissed  it  only  upon  the 
terms  of  a  self-promise  to  entertain  it  some  other  time ; 
and  he  availed  himself  of  her  good  offices  almost  as 
joyfully  as  she  proposed  them.  He  had  to  submit  to 
the  romantic  supposition  which  he  was  aware  Mrs. 
Atherton  was  keeping  out  of  her  words  and  looks,  and 
he  joined  her  in  the  conspicuous  pretence  she  made 
throughout  the  affair  that  he  was  acting  from  the  most 
disinterested,  the  most  scientific  motives. 

It  was  not  so  hard  as  he  had  fancied  it  might  be  to 
get  Miss  Aldgate's  consent  to  Mrs.  Athertou's  hospi 
tality.  '  It  was  the  only  possible  thing  for  her,  and  she 
acquiesced  simply,  like  one  accustomed  to  favors; 
she  expressed  a  sense  of  the  kindness  done  her,  with 


AX     IMIM.K  \TIVK    Df'TY.  109 

a  delicate  self-respect  which  Olney  hardly  knew  how 
to  account  for  upon  the  theory  that  Mrs.  Meredith  had 
spoken  to  her.  Apparently  she  appreciated  all  the 
necessities  of  the  case,  and  she  did  not  troublesomely 
interpose  any  of  the  reluctances  of  grief  which  he  had 
expected.  If  he  could  have  wished  any  difference  in 
her  it  would  have  been  for  rather  less  composure ;  hut 
then  this  might  have  been  the  apathy  following  the 
great  shock  she  had  received.  He  willingly  accepted 
Mrs.  Atherton's  theory,  hurriedly  whispered  at  part 
ing,  that  she  did  not  realize  what  had  happened  yet ; 
Mrs.  Atherton  seemed  to  prize  her  the  more  for  it. 

He  came  back  from  seeing  them  off  on  the  train  to 
the  hotel,  where  he  found  a  telegram  from  Mrs.  Mere 
dith's  connections  in  St.  Louis.  They  were  very 
sorry ;  they  were  unable  to  come  on  ;  they  would 
write.  Olney  felt  a  grateful  lift  of  the  heart  in  think 
ing  of  Miss  Aldgate  in  Mrs.  Atherton's  affectionate 
keeping,  as  he  crumpled  the  despatch  in  his  hand  and 
tossed  it  on  his  dismal  white-marble  hearth.  He  be 
lieved  that  he  read  between  its  words  a  revelation  of 
the  fact  that  the  dead  woman's  husband  had  not  kept 
Rhoda's  secret  from  his  family,  and  that  these  unable 
friends,  whatever  they  wrote,  were  riot  likely  to  urge 
any  claim  to  comfort  the  girl. 

It  was  Mrs.  Bloomingdale  who  came  to  do  this  with 
several  of  her  large  and  passive  daughters,  about  as 
long  after  the  evening  papers  came  out  as  would  take 
her  to  drive  over  from  the  Vendome.  Olney  had  been 
able  to  persuade  the  reporters  who  got  hold  of  the  case 


110  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

that  there  was  nothing  to  work  up  in  it,  and  the  para 
graph  that  Mrs.  Bloomingdale  saw  was  discreet  enough  ; 
it  attributed  Mrs.  Meredith's  death  to  an  overdose  of 
the  soporific  prescribed  for  her,  and  it  connected 
Olney's  name  with  the  matter  as  the  physician  who 
happened  to  be  stopping  in  the  hotel  with  the  unfor 
tunate  lady. 

"  I  came  the  instant  I  read  it,"  Mrs.  Bloomingdale 
explained,  "  for  I  couldn't  believe  the  evidence  of  my 
senses,"  and  she  added  such  a  circumstantial  statement 
of  her  mental  struggle  with  the  fact  projected  into  her 
consciousness  as  could  leave  no  doubt  that  the  fact 
itself  was  far  less  important  than  the  effect  produced 
upon  her. 

As  Olney  listened  he  lost  entirely  a  lurking  discom 
fort  he  had  felt  at  Miss  Aldgate's  refusal  to  let  those 
people  have  anything  to  do  with  her  or  for  her  in  her 
calamity.  Whatever  the  son  might  be,  the  mother 
was  a  vulgarly  selfish  woman,  posing  before  him  as  a 
generous  benefactress,  who  was  also  a  martyr.  u  I 
asked  for  you,  doctor,"  she  went  on,  at  the  end  of  her 
personal  history  in  connection  with  the  affair,  "  be 
cause  I  preferred  not  to  intrude  upon  that  poor  young 
creature  without  learning  just  how  I  ought  to  approach 
her.  As  I  said  to  my  daughter  Roberta,  in  coming 
along  "  —  she  put  the  tallest  and  serenest  of  the  big, 
still  blondes  in  evidence  with  a  wave  of  her  hand  — 
"  I  would  be  ruled  entirely  by  what  you  said  of  the* 
newspaper  report." 

Qlney  said  of  it  dryly  that  it  was  quite  correct. 


JLN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY.  Ill 

"  Oil,  I  am  so  relieved,  doctor !  "  said  Mrs.  Bloom- 
ingdale.  "  I  didn't  know,  don't  you  know  —  I  thought 
perhaps  that  there  were  facts  —  details  which  you  pre 
ferred  to  keep  from  the  public  ;  that  there  were  pecu 
liar  circumstances  —  aberration,  don't  you  know  ;  and 
that  kind  of  thing.  But  I'm  so  glad  there  wasn't!  " 

Oluey  felt  a  malicious  desire  to  disturb  this  crowing 
complacency  which  he  believed  was  the  cover  of  mean 
anxieties  and  suspicions.  He  asked,  "  Do  you  mean 
suicide?" 

"  Well,  no  ;  not  that  exactly.  But  —  "  She  stopped, 
and  he  merely  said  : 

"  There  was  no  evidence  of  suicidal  intent." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Mrs.  Bloomingdale,  but,  as  he  intended, 
not  so  crowingly  this  time.  "And  then  —  you  think 
I  can  ask  for  Miss  Aldgate  ?  " 

"  Miss  Aldgate  is  not  here  —  "  Olney  began. 

"  Not  here  !  " 

"  She  is  with  Mrs.  Athertou,  at  Beverly.  She 
couldn't  remain  here,  you  know." 

"  And  may  I  ask  —  do  I  understand  —  Why  didn't 
Miss  Aldgate  let  us  know  ?  " 

Olney  rejoiced  to  be  able  to  say,  "  I  suggested  that, 
but  she  preferred  not  to  disturb  you." 

"And  why  did  she  prefer  that?"  said  Mrs.  Bloom 
ingdale,  with  rising  crest. 

"  I'm  sorry,  I  don't  know.     It  was  by  accident  that 
I  met  Mrs.  Atherton  on  the  street ;    she  is  a  well- 
known  lady  here,  and  she  at  once  took  Miss  Aldgate 
home  with  her." 
8 


112  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

At  the  bottom  of  his  heart  Olney  did  not  feel  alto 
gether  easy  at  what  he  knew  of  Miss  Aldgate's  rela 
tions  to  the  Bloomingdale  family.  He  would  have 
liked  to  blind  himself  to  facts  that  proved  her  weak 
or  at  least  light-mindedly  fond  of  any  present  pleasure 
at  the  cost  of  any  future  complication,  but  he  was  not 
quite  able  to  do  so,  much  as  he  wished  to  inculpate 
the  Bloomingdales.  He  was  silent,  and  attempted  no 
farther  explanation  or  defence  of  Rhoda's  refusal  to 
see  them. 

"I  presume,  Dr.  Olney,"  Mrs.  Bloomingdale  went 
on,  "  that  you  know  nothing  of  the  circumstances  of 
our  acquaintance  with  Miss  Aldgate ;  and  I  can't  ex 
pect  you  to  sympathize  with  my  —  my  —  surprise  that 
she  should  have  turned  from  us  at  such  a  time.  But 
I  must  say  that  I  am  very  greatly  surprised.  Or  not 
surprised,  exactly.  Pained." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  Olney  said  agaiu.  "  I  have  no 
right  to  intervene  in  any  matter  so  far  beyond  my 
functions  as  Mrs.  Meredith's  physician,  but  I  venture 
to  suggest  that  the  blow  which  has  fallen  on  Miss  Aid- 
gate  is  enough  to  account  for  what  seems  strange  to 
you  in  —  " 

"  Of  course.  Certainly.  I  make  allowance  for  that,'* 
said  Mrs.  Bloomingdale ;  and  Olney  was  aware  of  re 
ceiving  this  proof  of  her  amiability,  her  liberality,  with 
regret ;  he  would  have  so  willingly  had  it  otherwise, 
in  justification  of  Miss  Aldgate.  "And  I  know  that 
the  past  year  has  been  one  of  great  anxiety  both  to 
Mrs.  Meredith  and  Miss  Aldgate.  You  knew  they 
had  lost  their  money  ?  " 


AN    IMPERATIVE    I'lTY.  113 

"No,"  >aid  Olney,  with  a  joyful  throb  of  the  heart, 
" I  didn't." 

••  I  have  understood  so.  Miss  Aldgate  will  be  left 
A\  ithout  anything  —  in  a  manner.  But  that  would  have 
made  no  difference  to  us.  We  should  have  been  only 
too  glad  to  prove  to  her  that  it  made  no  difference. 
But  if  she  prefers  not  to  see  us  —  We  expect  my  son 
by  Wednesday's  steamer  in  New  York."  She  added 
this  suddenly  and  with  apparent  irrelevance,  but  Olney 
perceived  that  she  wished  to  test  his  knowledge  of  the 
whole  case,  and  she  had  instantly  learned  from  his  face 
that  he  knew  much  more  than  he  would  own.  But  he 
made  no  verbal  concession  to  her  curiosity.  "  I  think 
you  met  my  son  in  Florence  ?  "  she  said. 

44 1  saw  him  at  Professor  Garofalo's  one  night." 

"  He  was  there  a  great  deal.  It  was  there  he  met 
—  Mrs.  Meredith."  Olney  said  nothing,  and  Mrs. 
Bloomingdale  rose,  and  as  with  the  same  motion  her 
large  daughters  rose.  "  May  I  ask,  Dr.  Olney,  that 
you  will  give  Miss  Aldgate  our  love,  and  say  to  her 
that  if  there  is  anything  we  can  do,  we  shall  be  so  — 
I  suppose  you  have  had  to  communicate  with  Mrs. 
Meredith's  —  or  Mr.  Meredith's  rather  —  family  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"They  will  be  at  the  funeral,  of  course  ;  and  if  —  " 

"They  are  not  coming,"  said  Olney.  "  They  have 
telegraphed  that  they  are  unable  to  come." 

"  Oh,  "said  Mrs.  Bloomingdale;  and  after  a  little 
pause  she  said,  "  Good-afternoon,"  and  led  her  girls 
out. 


114  AN  IMPERATIVE:  DUTY. 

Olney  felt  that  he  had  parted  with  an  enemy,  and 
that  though  he  had  in  one  sort  tried  to  keep  a  con 
scientious  neutrality,  he  had  discharged  himself  of  an 
offensive  office  in  a  hostile  manner,  ,hat  he  had  made 
her  his  enemy  if  not  Miss  Aldgate's  enemy.  She  sus 
pected  him,  he  knew  that,  of  having  somehow  come 
between  her  and  Miss  Aldgate  of  his  own  will  as  well 
as  Rhoda's.  In  view  of  this  fact  he  had  to  ask  him 
self  to  be  very  explicit  as  to  his  feelings,  his  hopes, 
his  intentions ;  and  after  a  season  of  close  question, 
the  response  was  very  clear.  He  could  not  doubt 
what  he  wished  to  do ;  the  only  doubt  he  had  was  as 
to  how  and  where  and  whether  he  could  do  it. 


XI. 

THE  day  of  the  funeral  Blooiningdftle  arrived.  None 
of  his  family  had  come  to  the  last  rites,  though  Olney 
had  made  it  a  point  both  of  conscience  and  of  honor  to 
let  them  know  when  and  where  the  ceremony  would 
take  place,  lie  felt  that  their  absence  was  an  expres 
sion  of  resentment,  but  that  it  was  a  provisional  re 
sentment  merely.  There  was  a  terrible  provisionally 
about  the  whole  business,  beginning  with  the  provi 
sional  deposition  of  the  dead  in  the  receiving-vault  at 
Mount  Auburn,  till  it  could  be  decided  \\ln-re  the  long- 
tormented  clay  was  finally  to  rest.  Every  decision 
concerning  the  affair  seemed  postponed,  but  he  did  not 
know  till  when;  death  had  apparently  decided  noth 
ing  ;  he  did  not  see  how  life  should. 

Bloomingdale  came  to  see  him  in  the  evening,  after 
dinner.  His  steamer  had  been  late  in  getting  up  to 
her  dock,  and  he  had  missed  the  first  train  on  to  Bos 
ton.  He  explained  the  ta<  t  briefly  to  Olney,  and  he- 
said  he  had  come  directly  to  see  him.  lie  recalled 
their  former  meeting  in  Florence,  but  said,  with  some 
how  an  effect  of  disappointment,  that  In-  had  taken  an 
older  man  whom  he  had  seen  at  Professor  Garofalo's 
for  Dr.  ()ln«-y.  On  his  part,  Olney  could  have  owned 
to  an  e(|ual  disappointment,  lie  remembered  perfectly 


116  AN   IMPERATIVE   DUTY. 

that  Mr.  Bloomingdale  was  a  slight,  dark  man  ;  but 
the  composite  Bloomingdale  type,  from  the  successive 
impressions  of  his  mother's  and  sisters'  style,  was  so 
deeply  stamped  in  his  consciousness  that  he  was  sur 
prised  to  find  the  young  minister  himself  neither  large 
nor  blond.  His  mind  wandered  from  him  to  the 
father  whom  he  had  never  seen,  but  who  had  left 
so  distinct  a  record  of  himself  in  his  son,  and  not  in 
his  daughters,  as  fathers  are  supposed  usually  to  do. 
Then  Olney's  thoughts  turned  to  that  whole  vexed 
question  of  heredity,  and  he  lost  himself  deeply  in 
conjecture  of  Rhoda's  ancestry,  while  Bloomingdale 
was  feeling  his  way  forward  to  inquire  about  her 
through  explanation  and  interest  concerning  Mrs. 
Meredith,  and  a  fit  sympathy,  a  most  intelligent  and 
delicate  appreciation  of  the  situation  in  all  its  details. 
Before  the  fact  formulated  itself  in  his  mind,  Olney 
was  aware  of  feeling  that  this  man  was  as  different 
from  his  family  in  the  most  essential  and  characteristic 
qualities  as  he  was  different  from  them  in  tempera 
ment  and  complexion. 

"  And  now  about  Miss  Aldgate,  Dr.  Olney,"  he  said, 
with  a  kind  of  authority,  which  Olney  instinctively,  how 
ever  unwillingly,  admitted.  "  I  shall  have  to  tell  you 
why  I  am  so  very  anxious  to  know  how  she  is  —  how 
she  bears  this  blow.  I  am  afraid  my  mother  betrayed 
to  you  the  hurt  which  she  felt,  that  Miss  Aldgate 
should  not  have  turned  to  her  in  her  trouble ;  but  I 
can  understand  how  impossible  it  was  she  should. 
Without  reflecting  upon  my  mother  at  all  for  her 


AN    IMI'KUATIVK     IHTY.  117 

feeling  —  for  I  can  see  how  she  would  feel  as  she  does 
—  I  must  say  I  don't  share  it.  While  Miss  Aldgate 
was  still  uncertain  about  —  about  myself  —  it  was 
simply  impossible  that  she  should  receive  any  sort  of 
favor  or  kindness  from  my  family  even  in  such  an  ex 
igency  as  this.  I,  would  have  been  indelicate;  it 
must  have  been  infinitely  easier  for  her  to  accept  the 
good  offices  of  a  total  stranger,  as  she  has  done.  Dr. 
Gluey,  I  have  to  ask  your  good  offices  —  and  I  have 
first  to  make  you  a  confidence,  as  my  reason  for  asking 
them.  I'm  sure  you  will  understand  me  !  " 

In  the  fervor  of  his  feeling  the  young  man's  voice 
trembled,  and  Olney  felt  himself  moved  with  a  curious 
involuntary  kindness  for  him  —  the  sort  of  admiring 
pity  which  men  have  been  said  to  feel  toward  a  brave 
foeman  they  mean  to  fight  to  the  death.  "  I  had  a 
very  great  hope  —  and  I  think  I  had  grounds  for  my 
hope  —  that  Miss  Aldgate  would  have  consented  to  be 
my  wife  when  she  met  me,  if  this  terrible  visitation  — 
if  all  had  gone  well."  The  words  sent  a  cold  thrill 
through  Olney's  heart,  and  the  mere  suggestion  that 
Rhoda  could  be  anybody's  wife  but  his  own  steeled  it 
against  this  pretender  to  her  love.  "  I  offered  myself 
to  her  in  Liverpool  before  she  sailed,  and  she  was  to 
have  given  me  her  answer  here  when  we  met.  Now, 
I  don't  know  what  to  do.  I  don't  know  anything. 
The  whole  world  seems  tumbled  back  into  chaos.  I 
can't  urge  anything  upon  her  at  such  a  time.  I'm  not 
even  sure  that  I  can  decently  ask  to  see  her.  And 
yet  if  I  don't,  what  may  not  she  think  ?  Can't  you 


118  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

help  me  in  this  matter  ?  You  were  Mrs.  Meredith's 
physician,  and  you  stand  in  a  sort  of  relation  to  Miss 
Aldgate  that  would  authorize  you  to  let  her  know  that 
I  am  here,  and  very  anxious  to  know  what  her  wish 
—  her  will  —  is  as  to  our  meeting.  It  might  not  be 
professional,  exactly,  but  —  I  came  to  you  with  the 
hope  that  it  might  be  possible.  Does  it  seem  asking 
too  much?  I  should  be  very  sorry  —  " 

Olney  saw  that  the  man's  sensitiveness  was  taking 
fire,  and  in  spite  of  his  resentment  of  a  request  which 
set  aside  all  his  own  secret  hopes  and  intentions  as 
non-existent,  he  could  not  forbear  a  concession  to  his 
unwitting  rival's  generous  feeling.  "  Not  at  all,"  he 
said ;  "  but  I  doubt  my  authority  to  intervene  in  any 
way.  I  have  no  right —  " 

'  Only  the  right  I've  suggested,"  the  young  man 
urged.  "  I  wouldn't  have  you  assume  anything  for 
my  sake.  But  I  know  that  the  circumstances  are 
more  than  ordinarily  distressing,  and  that  Mrs.  Mere 
dith's  death  came  in  a  way  that  might  make  Miss 
Aldgate  afraid  that  —  that  —  there  might  be  some 
shadow  of  change  in  me  on  account  of  them.  At  such 
times  we  have  misgivings  about  everybody ;  but  I  wish 
it  to  be  understood  that  no  circumstance  could  influ 
ence  my  feeling  toward  her." 

"  I  don't  know  whether  I  understand  you  exactly," 
said  Olney,  with  a  growing  dread  of  the  man's  gen 
erosity. 

"  Why,  I  suppose,  from  what  I  am  able  to  learn, 
that  poor  Mrs.  Meredith  committed  suicide." 


AN    IMPKUAT1VK    DUTY.  119 

"  Not  at  all,"  Olney  promptly  returned.  •-  There  is 
no  evidence  of  that.  There's  every  indication  that  she 
simply  took  an  overdose  of  the  medicine  I  prescribed. 
It  wouldn't  have  killed  her  of  itself,  but  her  forces 
were  otherwise  weakened." 

••  I'm  glad,  for  her  sake,  to  hear  it,"  said  Blooming- 
dale,  "but  it  would  have  made  no  difference  with  me 
if  it  had  been  different.  If  she  had  taken  her  life  in 
a  fit  of  insanity,  as  I  inferred,  it  would  only  have  made 
me  more  constant  in  the  feeling.  There  is  no  con 
ceivable  disadvantage  which  would  not  have  endeared 

o 

Miss  Aldgate  more  to  me.  I  could  almost  wish  for 
the  direst  misfortune,  the  deepest  disgrace,"  he  went 
on,  while  the  tears  sprang  to  his  eyes,  "  to  befall  her, 
if  only  that  I  might  show  her  that  it  counted  nothing 
against  her,  that  it  counted  everything  for  lu-r !  " 

Olney 's  heart  sank  within  him,  and  he  felt  guilty 
before  this  unselfish  frankness,  which,  if  a  little  boy 
ish,  was  still  so  noble.  He  knew  very  well  that  if 
such  a  lover  could  be  told  everything,  it  would  not 
matter  the  least  to  him ;  that  the  girl  might  be  as 
black  as  ebony,  and  his  passion  would  paint  her  di 
vinely  fairer  than  the  lily.  Olney  knew  this  from  his 
own  thoughts  as  well  as  from  the  other's  words  ;  he 
was  himself  like  the  spirit  he  conceived : 

"  Du  gleichst  dem  Geist  dem  du  begreifst." 

But  he  was  aware  of  an  instant  purpose  not  to  let  his 
rival  be  brought  to  the  test;  and  he  was  aware  at  the 
same  time  of  a  duty  he  had  to  let  him  somehow  have 


120  AN    IMPERATIVE   DUTY. 

his  chance.  "  After  all,"  he  reflected,  "  what  reason 
have  I  to  suppose  that  she  ever  cared  a  moment  for 
me,  or  ever  could  care  ?  Very  likely  she  likes  this 
fellow ;  he  is  lovable ;  he  is  a  fine  fellow,  though  I 
hate  him  so ;  and  what  right  have  I  to  stand  between 
them  ?  He  must  have  his  chance."  When  he  came 
to  this  point,  he  said  aloud,  coldly,  "  I  don't  under 
stand  what  you  expect  me  to  do." 

"  Nothing !  Only  this :  to  let  me  go  and  see  the 
lady  with  whom  Miss  Aldgate  is  staying,  and  learn 
from  her  whether  and  when  Miss  Aldgate  will  see  me. 
That's  all  I  can  reasonably  ask.  I  ought  to  ask  as 
much  if  I  meant  to  give  her  up  —  and  it's  all  that  I 
ask  meaning  never  to  give  her  up.  Yes,  that's  all  I 
can  ask !  "  he  repeated,  desperately. 

"  That  will  be  a  very  simple  matter,"  said  Olney. 
"  Miss  Aldgate  is  with  Mrs.  Atherton,  at  Beverly.  I 
can  give  you  her  address,  and  my  card  to  her." 

"  Yes,  yes !  Thank  you  —  thank  you  ever  so  much. 
But  —  but  if  1  present  myself  without  explanation, 
what  will  this  lady  think  ?  " 

"  She'll  give  your  name  to  Miss  Aldgate,  and  that 
will  be  explanation  enough,"  said  Olney,  finding  some 
thing  a  little  superfine  in  this  hesitation,  and  refusing 
to  himself  to  be  the  bearer  of  any  sort  of  confidences 
to  Mrs.  Atherton,  who  would  be  only  too  likely  to 
take  a  romantic  interest  in  the  devoted  young  minister. 
Oluey  meant  to  give  him  an  even  chance,  but  nothing 
more. 

"True  !  "  said  Bloomingdale,  nervously  gnawing  his 


AN     IMI'KIIATIN  K     Dl'TV.  121 

lip.  "True!"  He  drew  a  long  breath,  and  added, 
"  Of  course,  I  can't  go  now  till  morning." 

Olnoy  said  nothing  as  to  this.  lie  was  writing  on 
his  card  Mrs.  Atherton's  address  and  the  introduction 
for  Bloomingdale  which  he  combined  with  it.  lie  had 
resolved  to  go  down  himself  that  night.  Bloomingdale 
clung  fervently  to  his  hand  in  parting. 

"  I  can  never  thank  you  enough !  "  he  palpitated. 

"  You  have  very  little  to  thank  me  for,"  said  Olney. 


XII. 

IF  Mrs.  Atherton  thought  it  strange  of  Dr.  Olney  to 
drive  up  to  her  sea-side  door  at  half-past  nine,  out  of 
a  white  fog  that  her  hospitable  hall  lamp  could  pierce 
only  a  few  paces  down  the  roadway,  she  dissembled 
her  surprise  so  well  that  he  felt  he  was  doing  the  most 
natural  thing,  not  to  say  the  most  conventional  thing, 
in  the  world.  She  was  notoriously  a  woman  of  no 
tact,  but  of  so  much  heart  that  where  it  was  a  question 
at  once  of  friendship  and  of  romance,  as  the  question 
of  Dr.  Olney  and  of  Miss  Aldgate  was  with  her,  she 
exercised  a  sort  of  inspiration  in  dealing  with  it.  She 
put  herself  so  wholly  at  the  service  of  their  imagined 
exigency  that  she  now  made  Olney  feel  his  welcome 
most  keenly :  a  welcome  which  expressed  that  she 
would  have  been  equally  glad  and  equally  ready  to 
receive  him  in  her  sweet-matted,  warm-rugged,  hearth- 
fire-lit  little  drawing-room,  if  he  had  suddenly  ap 
peared  at  half-past  two  in  the  morning.  The  Japanese 
portiere  had  not  ceased  tinkling  behind  him  when  she 
appeared  through  it,  with  outstretched  hand.  She 
promptly  refused  his  excuses.  "  I  really  believe  I  was 
somehow  expecting  you  to-night ;  and  I'm  ashamed 
that  Mr.  Atherton  isn't  up  to  bear  witness  to  my  pre 
sentiment.  But  he's  had  rather  a  tiresome  day,  in 


AX    IMIM  KA  IIVI.    DUTY.  123 

town,  and  he's  gone  to  bed  early.  I'm  glad  to  say 
that  Miss  Aldgate  has  gone  to  her  room,  too.  She's 
feeling  the  reaction  from  the  tension  she's  been  in,  and 
I  hope  it  will  be  a  complete  letting  down  for  her. 
Have  you  heard  anything  more  from  those  strange 
people  ?  Very  odd  they  shouldn't  any  of  them  have 
come  on !  " 

Mrs.  Atherton  meant  the  St.  Louis  connections  of 
Mrs.  Meredith,  and  Oluey  said,  with  an  embarrassed 
frown,  "  No,  they  haven't  made  any  sign  yet." 

"  The  strange  thing  about  a  tragedy  of  this  kind  is," 
Mrs.  Atherton  remarked,  "  that  you  never  can  realize 
that  it's  ended.  You  always  think  there's  going  to  be 
something  more  of  it.  I  suppose  I  was  thinking  that 
you  had  heard  something  disagreeable  from  those  peo 
ple,  though  I  don't  know  what  they  could  say  or  do  to 
heighten  the  tragedy." 

"  I  don't  either,"  Gluey  answered.  "  But  some 
thing  else  has  happened,  Mrs.  Atherton.  You  were 
quite  right  in  your  foreboding  that  the  end  was  not 
yet."  He  paused  with  a  gloomier  air  than  he  knew, 
for  Bloomingdale'fl  appearance  was  to  him  by  far  the 
most  tragical  phase  of  the  affair.  Then  he  went  on 
thoughtfully  :  "  I  hardly  know  how  to  approach  the 
matter  without  seeming  to  meddle  in  it  more  than  I 
mean  to  do.  I  wish  absolutely  to  put  myself  outside 
of  it.  But  there's  a  kind  of  necessity  that  I  should 
tell  you  about  it."  As  he  said  this  the  kind  of  neces 
sity  that  he  had  thought  there  was  instantly  vanished, 
and  left  him  feeling  rather  blank.  There  was  no 


124  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

necessity  at  all  that  he  should  tell  Mrs.  Atnerton  what 
relation  Bloomingclale  bore,  and  wished  to  bear,  toward 
Miss  Aldgate.  All  that  he  had  to  do,  if  he  had  to  do 
anything,  was  to  tell  her  that  he  had  given  him  his 
card  to  her,  and  that  she  might  expect  him  in  the 
morning,  and  so  leave  her  to  her  conjectures.  If  he 
went  beyond  this,  he  must  go  very  far  beyond  it,  and 
not  make  any  confidence  for  Bloomingdale  without 
making  a  much  ampler  confidence  for  himself.  "The 
fact  is,  I  wish  to  submit  a  little  case  of  conscience  to 
you." 

Mrs.  Atherton  was  delighted ;  and  if  she  had  been 
drowsy  before,  this  would  have  aroused  her  to  the 
most  vigilant  alertness.  She  knew  that  the  case  of 
conscience  must  somehow  have  something  to  do  with 
Miss  Aldgate  ;  she  believed  that  it  was  nothing  but  a 
love  affair  in  disguise,  and  a  love  affair,  with  a  strong 
infusion  of  moral  question  in  it,  promised  a  pleasure 
to  Mrs.  Atherton's  sympathetic  nature  which  nothing 
else  could  give.  "  Yes  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Mrs.  Atherton,"  Olney  resumed,  "  how  far  do  you 
think  a  man  is  justified  in  pursuing  an  advantage 
which  another  has  put  in  his  hands  unknowingly  — 
say  that  another,  who  did  not  know  that  I  was  his 
enemy,  had  put  in  my  hands  ?  " 

"  Not  very  far,  Dr.  Olney,"  she  answered,  promptly. 
"  In  fact,  not  at  all.  That  is,  you  might  justify  such 
a  man,  if  the  case  were  some  one  else's.  But  you 
couldn't  justify  him  if  the  case  were  yours." 

"  I  was  afraid  you  would  say  so ;  I  knew  you  would 


AN    IMl'l.KATIVK    DUTY.  125 

say  so.  Well,  the  case  is  mine,"  said  Gluey,  "and  it's 
this.  I've  run  down  here  to-night  to  tell  yon  that  I've 
given  my  card  to  a  gentleman  who  will  call  here  in 
the  morning." 

Olney  paused,  and  Mrs.  Atherton  said,  "I'm  sure  I 
shall  be  glad  to  see  any  friend  of  yours,  Dr.  Olney." 

"  He  isn't  my  friend,"  Olney  returned,  gloomily. 

"  Then,  any  enemy,"  Mrs.  Atherton  suggested. 

Olney  put  the  little  ph-asantry  by.  "The  day  !»••- 
fore  Mrs.  Meredith  died,  she  told  me  something  that  I 
need  not  speak  of  except  as  it  relates  to  this  Mr. 
Bloomingdale." 

4-  It's  Mr.  Bloomiugdale  who's  coming,  then  ?  " 

"  Yes.     Do  you  know  anything  about  him  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  !     Only  it's  a  very  floral  kind  of  name." 

"  I  wish  I  could  be  light  about  the  kind  of  person 
he  is.  But  I  can't.  He's  a  very  formidable  kind  of 
person  :  very  sensible,  very  frank,  very  generous." 

Mrs.  Atherton  shook  her  head  with  a  subtle  intelli 
gence.  "  Those  might  be  very  disheartening  traits  — 
in  another." 

"  They  are.  They  complicate  the  business  for  me. 
This  Mr.  Bloomingdale  has  offered  himself  to  Miss 
Aldgate."  Mrs.  Atherton's  attentive  gaze  expressed 
no  surprise  ;  probably  she  had  divined  this  from  the 
beginning.  "  He  was  to  have  had  his  answer  when 
he  met  her  in  Boston,"  Olney  said,  with  an  effect  of 
finding  the  words  a  bad  taste  in  his  mouth.  "  That 
was  the  arrangement  in  Liverpool.  But,  of  course, 
now  —  " 


126  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

He  stopped,  and  Mrs.  Atherton  took  the  word,  with 
a  lofty  courage : 

"Of  course  now  he  has  all  the  greater  right  to  it." 

"  Yes,"  said  Olney,  though  he  did  not  see  why. 

"  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  Mr.  Bloomingdale  when  he 
comes,"  Mrs.  Atherton  went  on  ;  "  and  though  it's  an 
embarrassing  moment,  I  must  manage  to  prepare  Miss 
Aldgate  for  his  coming.  She  will  certainly  have  her 
mind  made  up  by  this  time." 

There  was  something  definitive  in  Mrs.  Atherton's 
tone  that  made  Olney  feel  as  if  he  had  transacted  his 
business,  and  he  rose.  He  had  felt  that  he  ought  to 
tell  Mrs.  Atherton  of  his  own  hopes  or  purposes  in 
regard  to  Miss  Aldgate ;  but  now  that  he  had  given 
Bloomiugdale  away,  this  did  not  seem  necessary.  In 
fact,  by  a  sudden  light  that  flashed  upon  it,  he  per 
ceived  that  it  would  be  allowing  his  rival  a  fairer 
chance  if  he  let  him  have  it  without  competition. 
Afterwards  when  he  got  out  of  the  house  he  thought 
he  was  a  fool  to  do  this ;  but  he  could  not  go  back 
and  make  his  confession  without  appearing  a  greater 
fool ;  and  he  kept  on  to  the  station,  and  waited  there 
till  the  last  train  for  town  came  lagging  along,  and 
then  he  put  himself  beyond  temptation,  at  least  for 
the  night. 

He  spent  what  was  left  of  it  in  imaginary  interviews, 
now  with  Mrs.  Atherton,  now  with  Bloomingdale, 
now  with  Rhoda,  and  now  with  all  of  them  in  various 
combinations,  and  constructed  futures  varying  in  char 
acter  from  the  gayest  happiness  to  the  gloom  of  the 


AN    IMPERATIVK    DUTY.  127 

darkest  tragedy,  lit  by  the  one  high  star  of  self-renun 
ciation.  Olnoy  got  almost  as  much  satisfaction  out  of 
the  renunciation  as  out  of  the  fruition  of  his  hopes.  It 
i>  apt  to  be  so  in  these  hypothetical  cases;  perhaps  it 
is  often  so  in  experience. 

He  waited  heroically  about  all  the  next  day  to  hear 
from  Mrs.  Atherton.  Something  in  the  pressure  of 
her  hand  at  parting  had  assured  him  that  she  under 
stood  everything,  and  that  she  was  his  friend ;  that 
they  were  people  of  honor,  who  were  bound  to  do  this 
thing  at  any  cost  to  him,  but  that  a  just  Providence 
would  probably  not  let  it  cost  him  much,  or  at  least 
not  everything. 

When  her  letter  came  at  last,  hurried  forward  by  a 
special  delivery  stamp  that  spoke  volumes  in  itself,  it 
brought  intelligence  which  at  first  made  Olney  feel 
that  he  must  somehow  have  been  guilty  of  an  unfair 
ness  towards  Bloommgdale,  that  he  had  tacitly  if  not 
explicitly  prejudiced  his  case.  There  was  a  little 
magnanimous  moment  in  which  he  could  not  rejoice 
that  Miss  Aldgate  had  absolutely  refused  to  see  Mr. 
Bloommgdale ;  that  she  had  shown  both  surprise  and 
indignation  at  his  coming ;  and  that  no  entreaty  or  ar 
gument  of  Mrs.  Atherton's  had  prevailed  with  her  to 
show  him  the  slightest  mercy,  or  to  send  him  any 
message  but  that  of  abrupt  refusal,  which- Mrs.  Ather- 
ton  softened  to  him  as  best  she  could.  She  wrote 
now  that  she  was  sure  there  must  be  some  misunder 
standing,  but  that  in  Miss  Aldgate's  state  of  nervous 
exaltation,  it  was  perfectly  useless  to  urge  anything  in 
9 


128  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

excuse  of  him,  and  she  had  to  resign  herself  to  the 
girl's  decision.  She  coincided  with  Olney  in  his  idea 
of  Bloomingdale's  character.  She  owned  to  a  little 
fancy  for  him,  and  to  a  great  deal  of  compassion.  He 
had  borne  the  severe  treatment  he  received  very  man 
fully,  and  at  the  same  time  gently.  He  seemed  to 
accept  it  as  final,  and  he  did  not  rebel  against  it  by 
the  slightest  murmur.  Olney  perceived  that  Mrs. 
Atherton  had  been  recognized  as  his  rival's  confidante 
far  enough  to  be  authorized  to  pour  balm  into  his 
wounds,  and  that  she  probably  had  not  spared  the 
balm. 


XIII. 

OLNEY  expected,  without  being  able  to  say  why  ex 
actly,  a  second  visit  from  the  man  who  was  now  only 
his  former  rival.  Perhaps  it  was  because  he  believed 
he  knew  why  Miss  Aldgate  had  refused  to  see  him 
that  he  rather  thought  the  young  man  would  come  to 
ask  him.  But  he  did  not  come,  and  in  the  mean  time 
Olney  began  to  perceive  that  it  would  have  been  pre 
posterous  for  him  to  have  come.  Till  he  learned  by 
inquiry  of  the  clerk  at  the  Vendome  that  Bloomingdale 
had  left  there  witli  his  mother  and  sisters,  he  did  not 
feel  that  the  minister  was  out  of  the  story,  and  that  it 
remained  for  him  alone  to  read  it  to  the  end.  He  took 
it  for  granted  that  Rhoda  treated  the  man  who  had 
certainly  a  claim  upon  her  kindness  in  that  brusque, 
not  to  say  brutal  manner,  out  of  mere  hysterical 
weakness.  She  had  made  up  her  mind  to  refuse  him, 
and  as  she  felt  she  might  not  have  strength  to  endure 
the  sight  of  the  pain  she  must  inflict,  she  had  deter 
mined  not  to  witness  it.  Whether  she  had  loved  him 
too  well  to  afflict  him  with  her  secret,  or  not  well 
enough  to  trust  him  with  it,  was  what  remained  a 
question  with  Olney.  and  he  turned  from  one  point  of 
it  to  the  other  with  the  wish  to  an>\ver  it  in  a  sense 
different  from  both.  What  he  wished  to  believe  was 


130  AX    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

that  she  did  not  love  the  poor  young  fellow  at  all,  but 
this  seemed  to  be  too  good  to  be  true,  and  he  could 
not  believe  it  with  the  constancy  of  his  desire.  Never 
theless  he  had  a  fitful  hold  upon  it,  and  it  was  this 
faith,  wavering  and  elusive  as  it  was,  that  encouraged 
him  to  think  Miss  Aldgate  would  not  refuse  to  see 
him,  and  that  he  might  at  any  rate  go  down  at  once 
to  Mrs.  Atherton's,  and  ask  about  her  if  not  for  her. 

When  he  had  reasoned  to  this  conclusion,  which  he 
reached  with  electrical  rapidity  as  soon  as  he  knew 
that  Bloomingdale  was  gone,  he  acted  upon  it.  Mrs. 
Atherton  received  him  with  a  cheerfulness  that  ig 
nored,  at  least  in  Miss  Aldgate's  presence,  the  fact 
that  lay  hidden  in  their  thoughts  if  not  in  hers.  Olney 
was  not  obliged  to  ask  about  her  or  for  her ;  she  came 
down  with  Mrs.  Atherton,  as  if  it  were  entirely  natu 
ral  she  should  do  so ;  and  the  pathetic  confidingness 
of  her  reception  of  him  as  an  old  friend,  brightened 
almost  into  the  gayety  that  was  her  first  and  principal 
charm  for  him.  If  it  had  appeared  at  once  this  gayety 
would  have  troubled  him  ;  he  would  have  doubted  it 
for  that  levity  of  nature,  of  race,  for  which  Mrs.  Mere 
dith  had  seen  it;  but  it  came  out  slowly  like  sunshine 
through  mist,  and  flattered  him  with  the  hope  that  he 
had  evoked  it  upon  her  tragic  mask.  At  the  same 
time  he  was  puzzled,  if  not  shocked,  that  she  seemed 
forgetful  of  the  woman,  so  recently  gone  forever,  who 
had  been  in  all  effects  a  mother  to  her,  and  who  had 
sacrificed  and  borne  more  than  most  mothers  for  her 
sake.  He  was  himself  too  inexperienced,  as  yet,  tc 


AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY.  131 

know  that  we  grieve  1'or  the  dead  only  by  fits,  by  im 
pulses  ;  that  the  boul  from  time  to  time  flings  off  with  . 
all  its  force,  the  crushing  burden,  which  then  sinks 
slowly  back  and  bows  it  in  sorrow  to  the  earth  again  ; 
that  if  ever  grief  is  constant,  it  is  madness,  it  is  death. 
Mrs.  Atherton  could  have  told  him  of  moments 
when  the  girl  was  prostrated  by  her  bereavement,  and 
realized  to  their  whole  meaning  the  desolation  and  de 
spair  which  it  had  left  her  to.  But  she  could  not  have 
told  him  of  the  stony  weight  of  uuforgiveness  at  the 
child's  heart  ;  of  her  uiiivaxMiing  resentment  of  the 
dead  woman's  revelation,  as  if  she  had  created  the 
fact  that  she  had  felt  so  sorely  bound  to  impart.  The 
tragic  circumstances  of  her  death  had  not  won  her 
pardon  for  this:  the  girl  felt  through  all  that  her  aunt 
had  somehow  made  it  so  ;  and  for  her,  ignorant  of  it  all 
her  life  till  that  avowal,  she  had  indeed  made  it  so. 
Whether  a  wiser  and  kinder  conscience  might  not  have 
found  it  possible  to  keep  the  secret,  in  which  there 
was  no  guilt  or  responsibility  for  the  girl,  and  trust 
the  Judge  of  all  the  earth  for  the  end,  is  a  question 
which  the  casuist  of  Mrs.  Meredith's  school  could  not 
deal  with.  Duty  with  her  could  mean  but  one  thing, 
and  she  had  done  her  duty.  Certainly  she  was  not  to 
be  condemned  for  it ;  but  neither  was  the  affection 
which  she  had  so  sorely  wounded  to  blame  if  it  had 
conceived  for  her  memory  the  bitter  dtop  of  hate 
which  poisoned  all  Rhoda's  thoughts  of  her.  What 
the  girl  had  constantly  said  to  herself  from  the  first 
was  what  she  still  said :  that  having  kept  this  secret 


132  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

from  her  all  her  life,  it  was  too  late  for  her  aunt  to 
speak  when  she  did  speak  at  last.  Another  not  in 
volved  in  the  consequences  of  her  act  might  not  have 
taken  this  view  of  it ;  but  this  was  the  view  taken  of 
it  by  the  girl  who  felt  herself  its  victim,  and  who  help 
lessly  resented  it,  in  spite  of  all  that  had  happened 
since. 

Whether  she  was  in  any  degree  excusable,  or 
whether  she  was  wholly  in  the  wrong  in  this  feeling, 
must  remain  for  each  to  decide,  and  to  each  must  be 
left  the  question  of  how  far  the  Puritan  civilization  has 
carried  the  cult  of  the  personal  conscience  into  mere 
dutiolatry.  The  daughter  of  an  elder  faith  would 
have  simplified  the  affair,  and  perhaps  shirked  the  re 
sponsibility  proper  to  her,  by  going  first  with  her  secret 
to  her  confessor,  and  then  being  ruled  by  him.  Mrs. 
Meredith  had  indeed  made  a  confessor  of  her  physi 
cian,  after  the  frequent  manner  of  our  shrill-nerved 
women,  but  even  if  Olney  could  have  felt  that  he  had 
the  right  to  counsel  her  on  the  moral  side,  it  is  doubt 
ful  if  she  could  have  found  the  strength  to  submit  to 
him. 

Olney's  interest  in  her  was  mainly  confined  to  the 
episodes  of  the  last  few  days,  and  vivid  as  these  had 
been,  it  could  not  hold  him  long  in  censure  of  Miss 
Aldgate's  behavior ;  he  began  to  yield  to  the  charm 
of  her  presence,  and  in  a  little  while  hazily  to  wond,er 
what  his  reserves  about  her  were.  She  was  in  the 
black  that  seems  to  grow  upon  women  in  the  time  of 
mourning,  and  it  singularly  became  her.  It  is  the 


AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY.  ]:','.} 

color  for  the  South,  and  for  Southern  beauty;  like 
the  inky  shadow  cast  by  the  effulgence  of  tropical 
skies,  it  is  the  counterpart  of  the  glister  and  flash  of 
hair  and  eyes  which  no  other  hue  could  set  off  so 
well.  The  girl's  splendor  dazzled  him  from  the  sable 
cloud  of  her  attire,  and  in  Mrs.  Atherton's  blond 
presence,  which  also  had  its  sumptuousness  —  she  was 
large  and  handsome,  and  had  as  yet  lost  no  grace  of 
her  girlhood  —  he  felt  the  tamencss  of  the  Northern 
type.  It  was  the  elder  world,  the  beauty  of  antiquity, 
which  appealed  to  him  in  the  lustre  and  sparkle  of 
this  girl ;  and  the  remote  taint  of  her  servile  and  sav 
age  origin  gave  her  a  kind  of  fascination  which  refuses 
to  let  itself  be  put  in  words  :  it  was  like  the  grace  of  a 
limp,  the  occult,  indefinable  lovableness  of  a  deformity, 
but  transcending  these  by  its  allurement  in  infinite 
degree,  and  going  for  the  reason  of  its  effect  deep  into 
the  mysterious  places  of  being  where  the  spirit  and  the 
animal  meet  and  part  in  us.  When  Olney  followed 
some  turn  of  her  head,  some  movement  of  her  person, 
a  wave  of  the  profoundest  passion  surged  up  in  his 
heart,  and  he  knew  that  he  loved  her  with  all  his  life, 
which  he  could  make  his  death  if  it  were  a  question  of 
that.  The  mood  was  of  his  emotional  nature  alone  ; 
it  sought  and  csmld  have  won  no  justification  from  his 
moral  sense,  which  indeed  it  simply  submerged  and 
blotted  out  for  the  time. 

There  was  no  reason  why  lie  should  not  stay  now  as 
long  as  he  liked,  or  why  he  should  not  come  auain  a- 
often  as  Mrs.  Atherton  could  find  pretexts  for  asking 


134  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

him.  Between  them  they  treated  the  matter  very 
frankly.  He  took  her  advice  upon  the  taste  and  upon 
the  wisdom  of  urging  his  suit  at  so  strange  a  time ; 
and  she  decided  that  in  the  anomalous  situation  to 
which  Miss  Aldgate  was  left,  her  absolute  friendless- 
ness  and  helplessness,  there  were  more  reasons  for  his 
wooing  than  against  it.  They  took  Mrs.  Atherton's 
husband  into  their  confidence,  and  availed  themselves 
of  the  daylight  of  a  legal  mind  upon  their  problem. 
He  greatly  assisted  to  clear  up  the  coarser  difficulties 
by  communicating  as  Miss  Aldgate's  lawyer  with  her 
aunt's  connections  in  St.  Louis.  Mrs.  Meredith  had 
left  to  her  niece  the  remnant  of  the  property  she  had 
inherited  from  her  husband  ;  and  his  family  willingly, 
almost  eagerly,  accepted  the  conditions  of  the  will. 
They  waived  any  right  to  question  it  in  any  sort,  and 
they  made  no  inquiries  about  Miss  Aldgate,  or  her 
purposes  or  wishes. 

Olney  agreed  with  the  Athertons  that  their  be 
havior  was  very  singular,  but  he  kept  his  own  con 
jectures  as  to  the  grounds  of  it.  They  were,  in  fact, 
hardly  conjectures  any  more ;  they  were  convictions- 
He  felt  sure  that  they  knew  the  secret  which  Mrs. 
Meredith  believed  her  husband  had  kept  from  all 
the  world ;  but  this  did  not  concern  him  so  deeply  as 
the  belief  that  had  constantly  grown  upon  him  since 
their  first  meeting  in  Mrs.  Atherton's  presence,  that 
Rhoda  knew  it  too.  He  had  no  reasons  for  his  belief; 
it  was  quite  without  palpable  proofs  ;  it  was  mere  in 
tuition  ;  and  yet  he  was  more  and  more  sure  of  the 
fact. 


AX    IMl'EKATIVE    DUTY.  135 

His  assurance  of  it  strengthened  with  his  belief  that 
the  girl  loved  him,  and  had  perhaps  had  her  fancy  for 
him  from  the  moment  they  saw  each  other  in  Florence. 
The  evidences  that  a  woman  gives  of  her  love  before 
it  is  asked  are  always  easily  resolvable  into  something 
else ;  and  in  both  these  things  Olney's  beliefs  were  of 
the  same  quality,  and  they  were  of  the  same  measure. 
But  the  one  conviction  began  to  taint  and  poison  the 
other.  The  man's  sweetest  and  fondest  hope  became 
a  pang  to  nim,  because  it  involved  the  fear  that  the 
girl  might  have  decided  to  accept  his  love  and  yet 
keep  her  secret.  In  any  case  he  desired  her  love  ;  as 
before  himself  he  did  not  blame  her  for  withholding 
her  secret  till  she  found  what  seemed  to  her  the  best 
time  for  imparting  it ;  but  for  her  own  sake  he  could 
have  wished  that  she  would  heroically  choose  the 
worst.  This  tacit  demand  upon  her  was  made  from 
his  knowledge  of  how  safe  it  would  be  for  her  to  tell 
him  everything,  and  it  left  out  of  the  account  the  fact 
that  till  he  asked  her  to  be  his  wife  he  had  no  claim 
upon  her,  that  he  could  have  no  terms  from  her  till  he 
owned  himself  won.  Love  is  a  war  in  which  there 
can  be  no  preliminaries  for  grace ;  the  surrender  must 
be  unconditional,  before  these  can  even  be  mentioned. 

There  were  times,  of  course,  when  Gluey  could  not 
believe  that  the  girl  knew  what  at  "other  times  she 
seemed  to  withhold  from  him ;  but  at  all  times  the 
conjecture  had  to  be  kept  to  himself.  If  she  knew, 
she  practised  a  perfect  art  in  concealing  her  knowl 
edge  which  made  him  fear  for  the  future ;  and  if  she 


136  AX    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

did  not  know,  then  she  showed  an  indifference  to  her 
aunt's  memory  which  seemed  not  less  than  unnatural. 
He  conceived  the  truth  concerning  her  when  he  said 
to  himself  that  Rhoda  must  hold  Mrs.  Meredith  re 
sponsible  for  the  fact  if  she  had  imparted  it ;  and  that 
time  alone  could  clear  away  her  confusion  of  mind 
and  enable  her  to  be  just  to  the  means  which  she 
confounded  with  the  cause  of  her  suffering.  But  he 
could  not  have  followed  her  into  those  fastnesses  of 
the  more  intensely  personalized  feminine  conscious 
ness  where  the  girl  relentlessly  punished  her  aunt  in 
thought,  not  for  doing  her  duty,  but  for  doing  it  too 
late,  when  she  could  remain  through  life  only  the  un 
reconciled  victim  of  her  origin,  instead  of  revealing  it 
early  enough  to  enable  her  to  accept  it  and  annul  it  by 
conforming  herself  to  it. 

As  this  was  what  Rhoda  had  never  ceased  to  believe 
would  have  been  possible,  her  heart  remained  sore 
with  resentment  in  the  midst  of  the  love  which  she 
could  not  help  letting  Olney  divine.  Circumstance 
had  drawn  their  lives  into  a  sudden  intimacy  which 
neither  would  or  could  withdraw  from;  they  drifted 
on  toward  the  only  possible  conclusion  together.  For 
the  most  part  the  sense  of  their  love  preoccupied  them. 
She  turned  from  her  desperate  retrospect  and  blindly 
strove  to  keep  herself  in  the  present,  and  to  shun  the 
future  as  she  tried  to  escape  the  past ;  he  made  sure 
of  nothing  to  build  on  except  the  fact  that  at  least  she 
did  not  know  that  Mrs.  Meredith  had  confided  her 
secret  to  him.  With  this  certain,  he  could  take  all 


AV    IMPF.RAT1VE    Dl'TY.  l.°>7 

rhancvs.  He  could  trust  time  to  soften  her  heart. 
toward  the  dead,  and  he*  could  forgive  the  concealment 
Inward  himself  which  she  used. 

One  thing  that  he  could  not  understand  was  her 
apparent  willingness  to  remain  just  where  and  as  she 
was  indefinitely ;  he  did  not  realize  that  it  was  ap 
parent  only,  and  as  a  man  he  did  not  account  for  her 
patience  —  if  it  were  patience  —  as  an  effect  of  the 
abeyance  in  which  the  whole  training  of  women 
teaches  them  to  keep  themselves.  The  moral  of  their 
education  from  the  moment  they  can  be  instructed  in 
anything  is  passivity,  and  to  take  any  positive  course 
must  be  a  negation  almost  of  their  being ;  it  must  cost 
an  effort  unimaginable  to  a  man. 

The  summer  weeks  faded  away  into  September, 
when  one  morning  Olney  came  to  see  Rhoda,  and 
found  her  sitting  on  a  bench  to  the  seaward  of  a  group 
of  birches.  The  trees  had  already  dropped  a  few 
yellow  leaves  on  the  lawn,  which  looked  like  flowers 
strewn  in  the  still  vividly  green  grass.  It  was  one  of 
those  pale  mornings  when  a  silvery  mist  blots  the  edge 
of  the  sea  and  lets  the  sails  melt  into  it.  She  was 
looking  wistfully  out  at  them,  across  Mrs.  Atherton's 
wall,  which  struggled  so  conscientiously  to  look  wild 
and  unkempt,  with  its  nasturtiums  clambering  over  it ; 
but  she  did  not  affect  to  be  startled  when  Olney's 
steps  made  themselves  heard  on  the  gravel-walk  com 
ing  toward  her. 

She  flushed  with  the  same  joy  that  thrilled  in  his 
heart,  and  waited  for  him  to  come  near  enough  to 


138  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

take  her  hand  before  she  asked,  "  Oh,  didn't  you  see 
Mrs.  Atherton  ?  " 

"  She  sent  me  word  that  you  were  here,  as  if  that 
were  what  I  wanted,"  he  answered,  smiling  over  the 
hand  he  held. 

"  Well,  I  can  tell  you  myself,  then,"  she  said,  sitting 
down  again. 

"Yes  ;  or  not,  as  you  like,"  he  returned. 

"No,  it  is  isn't  whether  I  like  or  not.  I  am  going 
away." 

"Yes,"  he  said  quietly.     "  Where  ?  " 

"  To  —  to  New  Orleans.  To  look  up  my  mother's 
family."  She  lifted  her  eyes  anxiously  to  his  face, 
and  then  helplessly  let  her  glance  fall.  "  I  have  been 
talking  it  over  with  Mrs.  Atherton,  and  she  thinks 
too  that  I  ought  to  try  to  find  them." 

Olney's  heart  gave  a  leap.  He  knew  that  she  was 
hovering  on  the  verge  of  a  confession,  which  she 
longed  to  make  for  his  sake,  and  that  he  ought  not  to 
suffer  her  till  he  had  made  his  own  confession.  He 
had  the  joy  of  realizing  her  truth,  and  he  rested 
nervelessly  in  that  a  moment,  before  he  could  say 
lightly,  "  I  don't  see  why  you  should  do  that." 

"Don't  you  think  —  think  —  that  it's  my  duty?" 
she  pleaded. 

"  Not  in  the  least !  From  the  experience  I've  had 
with  the  St.  Louis  branch  of  your  family  I  don't  think 
it's  your  duty  to  look  any  of  them  up.  Why  do  you 
think  it  is  your  duty  ?  Have  they  tried  to  find  you  ?  " 

"They  are  very  poor  and  humble  people  —  the 
humblest,"  she  faltered  piteously.  "  They  —  " 


AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY.  139 

Her  breath  went  in  silence,  and  lie  cried,  ''  Rhoda  ! 
Don't  go  away  !  Stay  !  Stay  with  me.  Or,  if  you 
must  go  somewhere,  go  back  with  me  to  Florence, 
where  the  happiness  of  my  life  began  when  I  first 
knew  you  were  in  the  world.  I  love  you  !  I  ask  you 
to  be  my  wife !  " 

She  let  her  hand  seem  to  sink  deeper  in  his  hold, 
which  had  somehow  not  released  it  yet;  she  almost 
pushed  it  in  for  an  instant,  and  then  she  pulled  it 
away  violently.  "  Never !  "  She  sprang  to  her  feet 
and  gasped  hoarsely  out,  "  I  am  a  negress  !  " 

Something  in  her  tragedy  affected  Olney  comically ; 
perhaps  the  belief  that  she  had  often  rehearsed  these 
words  as  answer  to  his  demand.  He  smiled.  "  Well, 
not  a  very  black  one.  Besides,  what  of  it,  if  I  love 
you?" 

"  What  of  it  ?  "  she  echoed.  "  But  don't  you  know  ? 
You  mustn't!  " 

The  simpleness  of  the  words  made  him  laugh  out 
right  ;  these  she  had  not  rehearsed.  She  had  drama 
tized  his  instant  renunciation  of  her  when  he  knew 
the  fatal  truth. 

"  Why  not?     I  love  you,  whether  I  must  or  not!  " 

As  tragedy  the  whole  affair  had  fallen  to  ruin.  It 
could  be  reconstructed,  if  at  all,  only  upon  an  octave 
much  below  the  operatic  pitch.  It  must  be  treated  in 
no  lurid  twilight  gloom,  but  in  plain,  simple,  matter- 
of-fact  noonday. 

"  I  can't  let  you,"  she  began,  in  a  vain  effort  to 
catch  up  some  fragments  of  her  meditated  melodrama 


140  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

about    her.       u  You    don't    understand.       My    grand 
mother  was  a  slave." 

"  The  more  shame  to  the  man  that  called  himself 
her  master!"  said  Olney.  "But  I  do  know  —  I 
understand  everything  —  I  know  everything !  "  He 
had  not  meant  to  say  this.  He  had  always  imagined 
keeping  his  knowledge  from  her  till  they  were  married, 
and  then  in  some  favored  moment  confessing  that  her 
aunt  had  told  him,  and  making  her  forgive  her  for 
having  told  him.  But  now,  in  his  eagerness  to  spare 
her  the  story  which  he  saw  she  had  it  on  her  conscience 
to  tell  him  in  full,  the  truth  had  escaped  him. 

"  You  know  it !  "  she  exclaimed,  with  a  fierce  recoil. 
"  How  do  you  know  it  ?  " 

"Your  aunt  told  me,"  he  answered,  hardily.  He 
must  now  make  the  best  of  the  worst. 

"  Then  she  was  false  to  me  with  her  last  breath ! 
Oh,  I  will  never  forgive  her  I  " 

"  Oh,  yes  you  will,  my  dear,"  said  Olney,  with  the 
quiet  which  he  felt  to  be  his  only  hope  with  her. 
"  She  had  to  tell  me,  to  advise  with  me,  before  she 
told  you.  I  wish  she  had  never  told  you,  but  if  she 
had  not  told  me,  she  would  have  defrauded  me  of  the 
sweetest  thing  in  life." 

"  The  privilege  of  stooping  to  such  a  creature  as  I  ?  " 
she  demanded,  bitterly. 

He  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it,  and  kept  it  in  his. 
"No  :  the  right  of  saying  that  you  are  all  the  dearer 
to  me  for  being  just  what  you  are,  and  that  I'm  prouder 
of  you  for  it.  And  now,  don't  say  that  you  will  not 


AN    IMI'KKATIVK     DITV.  141 

forgive  that  poor  soul,  who  suffered  years  for  every 
hour  that  you  have  suffered  from  that  cause.  She  felt 
herself  sacredly  bound  to  tell  you." 

"  It  was  too  late  then,"  said  the  girl,  with  starting 
tears.  "  She  killed  me.  I  can't  forgive  her." 

"  Well,  what  can  that  matter  to  her?  She  can  for 
give  you;  and  that's  the  great  thing." 

••  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  she  asked,  weakly  trying 
to  get  her  hand  away. 

"  How  came  she  to  tell  you  that  she  hadn't  told 
me?" 

**  I  —  I  made  her,"  faltered  the  girl.  "  I  asked  her 
if  she  had.  I  was  frantic." 

"Yes.  You  had  no  right  to  do  that.  Of  course 
she  had  to  deny  it,  and  you  made  her  take  a  new  lie 
on  her  conscience  when  she  had  just  escaped  from  one 
that  she  had  carried  for  you  all  your  life."  Olney 
gave  her  back  her  hand.  "  Whatever  you  do  with 
me,  for  your  own  sake  put  away  all  thoughts  of  hard 
ness  towards  that  poor  woman." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Then  the  girl  broke  into 
sudden  tears.  "  I  do ;  I  will !  I  see  it  now !  It  was 
cruel,  cruel!  But  I  couldn't  see  it  then;  I  coul'ln't 
see  anything  but  myself ;  the  world  was  filled  with  me 
—  blotted  out  with  me!  Ah,  can  she  ever  forgive 
me  ?  If  I  could  only  have  one  word  with  her,  to  say 
that  there  never  was  any  real  hardness  in  me  toward 
her,  and  I  didn't  know  what  I  was  doing !  Do  you 
think  I  made  her  kill  herself?  Tell  me  if  you  do ! 
I  can  bear  it  —  I  deserve  to  bear  it ! ' 


142  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

"  She  never  meant  to  kill  herself,"  said  Olney,  sin 
cerely.  "  I  feel  sure  of  that.  But  she's  gone,  and 
you  are  here ;  the  question's  of  you,  not  of  her ;  and 
I  only  asked  you  to  be  just  to  yourself.  Idid'nt  mean 
to  tell  you  now  that  I  knew  your  secret  from  her,  but 
I'm  not  sorry  I  told  you,  if  it's  helped  you  to  substitute 
a  regret  for  a  resentment." 

"  It's  done  that  for  all  my  life  long." 

"  Ah,  I  didn't  mean  it  to  go  so  far  as  that !  "  said 
Olney,  smiling. 

"  No  matter !  It's  what  I  must  bear.  It's  a  just 
punishment."  She  rose  suddenly,  and  put  out  her 
hand  to  him.  "  Good-by." 

"  What  for  ?  "  he  asked.     "  I'm  not  going." 

"  But  /  am.  I'm  going  away  to  find  my  mother's 
people,  if  I  can  —  to  help  them  and  acknowledge  them. 
I  tried  to  talk  with  Mrs.  Atherton  about  it,  the  other 
day,  but  I  couldn't  rightly,  for  I  couldn't  let  her 
understand  fully.  But  it's  true  —  and  be  serious  about 
it,  and  don't  laugh  at  me !  Oughtn't  I  to  go  down 
there  and  help  them  ;  try  to  educate  them,  and  elevate 
them ;  give  my  life  to  them  ?  Isn't  it  base  and 
cowardly  to  desert  them,  and  live  happily  apart  from 
them,  when  —  " 

"  When  you  might  live  so  miserably  with  them  ?  " 
Olney  asked.  "  Ah,  that's  the  kind  of  question  that  I 
suspect  your  poor  aunt  used  to  torment  herself  with ! 
But  if  you  wish  me  to  be  really  serious  with  you  about 
it,  I  will  say,  Yes,  you  would  have  some  such  duty 
toward  them,  perhaps,  if  you  had  voluntarily  chosen 


AX    IMPERATIVK    DUTY.  143 

your  part  with  .hem —  if  you  had  ever  consented  to  be 
of  their  kind.  Then  it  would  be  base  and  cowardly  to 
desert  them  ;  it  would  be  a  treason  of  the  vilest  sort. 
But  you  never  did  that,  or  anything  like  it,  and  there 
is  no  more  specific  obligation  upon  you  to  give  your 
life  to  their  elevation  than  there  is  upon  me.  Besides, 
I  doubt  if  that  sort  of  specific  devotion  would  do  much 
good.  The  way  to  elevate  them  is  to  elevate  us,  to 
begin  with.  It  will  be  an  easy  matter  to  deal  with 
those  simple-hearted  fofks  after  we've  got  into  the 
right  way  ourselves.  No,  if  you  must  giv£  your  life 
to  the  improvement  of  any  particular  race,  give  it  to 
mine.  Begin  with  me.  You  won't  find  me  unreason 
able.  All  that  I  shall  ask  of  you  are  the  fifteen-six 
teenths  or  so  of  you  that  belong  to  my  race  by  hered 
ity  ;  and  I  will  cheerfully  consent  to  your  giving  our 
colored  connections  their  one-sixteenth." 

Olney  broke  off,  and  laughed  at  his  joke,  and  she 
joined  him  helplessly.  "  Oh  !  don't  laugh  at  me  !  " 

"  Laugh  at  you  ?  I  feel  a  great  deal  more  like  cry 
ing.  If  you  go  down  there  to  elevate  the  blacks, 
what  is  to  become  of  me  ?  I  don't  really  object  to 
your  going,  but  I  want  to  go  with  you." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  she  entreated,  piteously. 

"  What  I  said  just  now.  I  love  you,  and  I  ask  you. 
to  be  my  wife." 

"  I  said  I  couldn't.     You  know  why." 

"  But  you  didn't  mean  it,  or  you'd  have  given  me 
some  reason.'* 

"  Some  reason  ?  " 

10 


144  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

"  Yes.  What  you  said  was  only  an  excuse.  I  can't 
accept  it.  Rhoda,"  he  added,  seriously,  "  I'm  afraid 
you  don't  understand  !  Can't  you  understand  that 
what  you  told  me  —  what  I  knew  already  —  didn't 
make  the  slightest  difference  to  me,  and  couldn't  to 
any  man  who  was  any  sort  of  a  man  !  Or  yes,  it  does 
make  a  difference !  But  such  a  kind  of  difference  that 
if  I  could  have  you  other  than  you  are  by  wishing  it, 
I  wouldn't  —  for  my  own  .selfish  sake  at  least,  I 
wouldn't  wish  it  for  the  world.  Can't  you  understand 
that?" 

"  No,  I  can't  understand  that.  It  seems  to  me  that 
it  must  make  you  loathe  me.  Oh ! "  she  shuddered. 
"  You  don't  know  how  hideous  they  are  —  a  whole 
churchful,  as  I  saw  them  that  night.  And  I'm  like 
them ! " 

Olney's  heart  ached  for  her,  but  he  could  not  help 
his  laugh.  "  Well,  you  don't  look  it.  Oh,  you  poor 
child !  Why  do  you  torment  yourself  ?  *' 

"  I  can't  help  it.  It's  burnt  into  me.  It's  branded 
me  one  of  them.  I  am  one.  No,  I  can't  escape.  And 
the  best  way  is  to  go  and  live  among  them  and  own  it. 
Then  perhaps  I  can  learn  to  bear  it,  and  not  hate  them 
so.  But  I  do  hate  them.  I  do,  I  do !  I  can't  help  it, 
and  I  don't  blame  you  for  hating  me  !  " 

"I  don't  happen  to  hate  even  you,"  said  Olney, 
going  back  to  his  lightness.  "My  trouble's  another 
kind.  Perhaps  I  should  hate  you,  and  hate  them,  if 
I'd  come  of  a  race  of  slave-holders,  as  you  have.  But 
my  people  never  injured  those  poor  creatures,  and  so 


AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY.  145 

I  don't  hate  them,  or  their  infinitesimal  part  in 
you." 

He  found  himself,  whenever  it  came  to  the  worst 
with  her  in  this  crisis,  taking  a  tone  of  levity  which 
was  so  little  of  his  own  volition  that  it  seemed  rather 
to  take  him.  He  was  physician  enough  to  flatter  his 
patient  for  her  good,  and  instinctively  he  treated 
Rhoda  as  if  she  were  his  patient.  It  did  flatter  her 
to  have  that  side  of  her  ancestry  dwelt  upon,  and  to 
be  treated  as  the  daughter  of  slave-holders ;  she  who 
would  not  reconcile  herself  to  her  servile  origin,  lis- 

55        ' 

teued  with  a  kind  of  fascination  to  his  tender  mockery, 
in  which  she  felt  herself  swayed  by  the  deep  under 
current  of  his  faithful  love. 

"  Come,  come  !  "  he  went  on,  and  at  his  touch  she 
dropped  weakly  back  into  her  seat  again,  and  let  him 
take  her  hand  and  hold  it.  "  I  know  how  this  fact 
has  seized  upon  you  and  blotted  everything  else  out 
of  the  world.  But  life's  made  up  of  a  great  deal  else ; 
and  you  are  but  one  little  part  injured  to  many  parts, 
injurer.  You  belong  incomparably  more  to  the  op 
pressors  than  to  the  oppressed,  and  what  I'm  afraid  of 
is  that  you'll  keep  me  in  hopeless  slavery  as  long  as  I 
live.  Who  would  ever  imagine  that  you  were  as  black 
as  you  say  ?  Who  would  think  —  " 

"  Ah,  you've  confessed  it '  You  would  be  ashamed 
of  me,  if  people  knew  !  That  is  it !  " 

"  If  you'll  answer  me  as  I  wish,  I'll  go  up  with  you 
to  the  house  and  tell  Mrs.  Atherton.  I've  rather  a 
fancy  for  seeing  how  she  would  take  it.  But.  I  can't 


146  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

unless  you'll  let  me  share  in  the  disgrace  with  you. 
Will  you  ?  " 

"  Never  !  It  shall  never  be  known  !  For  your 
sake  !  /can  bear  it ;  but  you  shall  not.  Promise  me 
that  you'll  never  tell  a  living  soul !  "  She  caught  him 
nervously  by  the  arm,  and  clung  to  him.  It  was  her 
sign  of  surrender. 

He  accepted  it,  arid  said  :  "  Very  well,  I  promise  it. 
But  only  on  one  condition :  that  you  believe  I'm  not 
afraid  to  tell  it.  Otherwise  my  self-respect  will  oblige 
me  to  go  round  shouting  it  to  everybody.  Do  you 
promise  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  promise  ; ''  and  now  she  yielded  to  the  gay  • 
ety  of  his  mood,  and  a  succession  of  flashing  smiles  lit 
up  her  face,  in  which  her  doom  was  transmuted  to  the 
happiest  fortune.  She  kept  smiling,  with  her  hands 
linked  through  his  arm  and  her  form  drawn  close  to 
him ;  while  their  talk  flowed  fantastically  away  from 
all  her  awful  questions.  Their  love  performed  the 
effect  of  common-sense  for  them,  and  in  its  purple 
light  they  saw  the  every-day  duties  of  life  plain  before 
them.  They  spoke  frankly  of  the  incidents  of  the 
past  few  days,  and  he  told  her  now  of  his  interview 
with  the  Bloomingdale  family,  and  how  he  felt  that  he 
had  hardened  Mrs.  Bloomingdale's  heart  against  her 
by  his  unsympathetic  behavior  in  denying  them  an 
interview  with  Rhoda  herself. 

This  made  her  laugh,  but  she  said,  with  a  shudder : 
"  I  couldn't  have  borne  to  look  at  them.  From  the 
first  moment  after  my  aunt  told  me,  I  felt  that  I  must 


AN     I.MIM-'.K  \  1  IVE     IM'TY.  147 

prevent  their  ever  seeing  me  a<rain.  I  wrote  to  him. 
and  I  carried  the  letter  out  with  me  to  post  it,  and 
make  sure  it  went ;  and  then*  somehow  I  forgot  to 
post  it." 

"  Ah,"  said  Gluey,  "  I  suppose  that's  the  reason 
why  he  came  to  see  me,  and  to  ask  where  he  could 
find  you." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Rhoda,  placidly. 
"  There  is  only  one  thing  in  the  whole  affair  that 
really  troubles  me,"  said  Olney,  u  and  that's  the  very 
short  shrift  you  gave  that  poor  fellow." 

"  "Why,  when  I  had  written  to  him  I  would  not  see 
him  again,  I  supposed  he  was  persisting,  and  it  was 
only  the  other  day  that  I  found  the  letter,  which  I'd 
forgotten  to  post.  It  was  in  the  pocket  of  the  dress 
I  wore  that  night  to  the  church." 

"And  you  don't  think   his  persisting  —  his  caring 
so  much  for  you  —  gave  him  the  right  to  see  you  ?  " 
"  Not  the  least." 

"  Ah,  a  man  never  understands  a  woman's  position 
on  that  question." 

"  Why,  of  course,  if  I  had  cared  for  him  —  " 
"I  don't  know  but  I've  a  little  case  of  conscience 
here  myself.      I  had  awful  qualms  when  that  poor 
fellow  was  talking  with  me.     I  perceived  that  he  was 
as  magnanimous  as  I  was  on  the  subject  of  heredity, 
and  that,  I  thought,  ought  to  count  in,  his  favor.     Will 
you  let  it?" 
"  No." 
44  Why  not?" 


148  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY. 

"  Because  I  don't  care  for  him." 

"  How  simple  it  is  !  "Well,  he's  off  my  conscience, 
at  any  rate."  • 

She  began  to  grieve  a  little.  "  But  if  you  are 
sorry  —  " 

"Sorry?" 

"If  you  think  you  will  ever  regret  —  if  you're  not 
sure  that  you'll  never  be  troubled  by  —  by  —  that, 
then  we  had  better  —  " 

"  My  dear  child,"  said  Olney,  "  I'm  going  to  leave 
all  the  trouble  of  that  to  you.  I  assure  you  that  from 
this  on  I  shall  never  think  of  it.  I  am  going  to  pro 
vide  for  your  future,  and  let  you  look  after  your  past/' 

She  dropped  her  head  with  a  sob  upon  his  shoulder, 
and  as  he  gathered  her  In  his  arms  he  felt  as  If  he  had 
literally  rescued  her  from  her  own  thoughts  of  her 
self. 

He  was  young  and  strong,  and  he  believed  that  he 
would  always  be  able  to  make  her  trust  him  against 
them,  because  now  in  the  fulness  of  their  happiness  he 
prevailed. 

There  are  few  men  who,  when  the  struggle  of  life 
is  mainly  over,  do  not  wonder  at  the  risks  they  took 
in  the  days  of  their  youth  and  strength ;  and  it  could 
not  be  pretended  that  Olney  found  more  than  the  com 
mon  share  of  happiness  in  the  lot  he  chose ;  but  then 
it  could  be  said  honestly  enough  that  he  did  not  con 
sider  either  life  or  love  valuable  for  the  happiness 
they  could  yield.  They  were  enough  in  themselves* 
He  was  not  a  seeker  after  happiness,  and  when  he 


AN    1MPKKATIVK    IM    PT.  149 

saw  that  even  hi>  l<>v«-  failed  at  times  to  make  life 
happy,  for  \\\*  \\iiV,  IM-  pitied  her,  and  he  did  not 
Maine  her.  He  knew  that  in  her  hours  of  despond 
ency  there  was  that  war  between  her  temperament 
and  her  character  which  is  the  fruitful  cause  of  misery 
in  the  world,  when-  all  >train>  are  now  so  crossed  and 
intertangled  that  there  is  no  definite  and  unbroken 
direction  any  more  ill  any  of  us.  In  her,  the  confu 
sion  was  only  a  little  greater  than  in  most  others,  and 
if  Olney  ever  had  any  regret  it  was  that  the  sunny- 
natured  antetypes  of  her  mother's  race  had  not  en 
dowed  her  with  more  of  the  heaven-born  cheerfulness 
with  which  it  meets  contumely  and  injustice.  His 
struggle  was  with  that  hypochondria  of  the  soul  into 
which  the  Puritanism  of  her  father's  race  had  sick 
ened  in  her,  and  which  so  often  seems  to  satisfy  its 
crazy  claim  upon  conscience  by  enforcing  some  aim 
less  act  of  self-sacrifice.  The  silence  in  which  they 
lived  concerning  her  origin  weighed  upon  her  some 
times  with  the  sense  of  a  guilty  deceit,  and  it  was  her 
remorse  for  this  that  he  had  to  reason  her  out  of. 
The  question  whether  it  ought  not  to  be  told  to  each 
of  their  acquaintance  who  became  a  friend  had  always 
to  be  solved  anew,  especially  if  the  acquaintance  was 
an  American  ;  but  as  yet  their  secret  remains  their 
own.  They  are  settled  at  Rome,  after  a  brief  experi 
ment  of  a  narrower  field  of  practice  at  Florence  ;  and 
the  most  fanciful  of  Olney 's  compatriot  patients  does 
not  dream  that  his  wife  ought  to  suffer  shame  from 
her.  She  is  thought  to  look  so  very  Italian  that  you 


150  AN    IMPERATIVE    DUTY 

would  really  take  her  for  an  Italian,  and  he  represents 
to  her  that  it  would  not  be  the  ancestral  color,  avhich 
is  much  the  same  in  other  races,  but  the  ancestral 
condition  which  their  American  friends  would  despise 
if  they  knew  of  it ;  that  this  is  a  quality  of  the  despite 
in  which  hard  work  is  held  all  the  world  over,  and  has 
always  followed  the  children  of  the  man  who  earns 
his  bread  with  his  hands,  especially  if  he  earns  other- 
people's  bread  too. 


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is  a  vertaiu  bright  cheerfulness  in  Miss  Woolson's  writing 
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novel  and  romance. — Boston  Journal. 


PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 

4y  The  above  work  sent  by  mail,  postage  prepaid,  to  any  part  :>/  the 
Unitfd  fifatex.  Canada,  or  Mexico,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

A  Pure  Woman,  Faithfully  Presented.  By  THOMAS 
HARDY,  author  of  "The  Woodlanders,"  "A  Laodi 
cean,"  etc.  Illustrated.  Post  8vo,  Cloth,  Orna 
mental,  $1  50.  New  Edition,  revised  and  consider 
ably  expanded  by  the  author,  according  to  the  latest 
English  edition. 

A  remarkably  fine  and  moving  story.  It  is  marked  by  all 
those  qualities  of  genius  which  we  are  accustomed  to  associate 
with  the  work  of  Mr.  Hardy.  It  is  full  of  poetry  of  incident  and 
phrase.  ...  A  great  story.  Nobody  should  miss  it. — N.  Y.  Sun. 

In  "  Tess  of  the  D'Urbervilles  "  Thomas  Hardy  exhibits  the 
strongest,  and  in  some  respects  the  best,  piece  of  literary  work 
that  has  ever  left  his  pen. — Philadelphia  Ledger. 

One  of  the  few  great  novels  of  the  century. — N.  Y.  Mail 
and  Express. 

Not  only  by  far  the  best  work  Mr.  Hardy  has  done;  it  is  one 
of  the  strongest  novels  that  have  appeared  for  a  long  time.  .  .  . 
A  more  tragic  or  powerfully  moving  story  than  that  of  Tess  lives 
not  in  fiction ;  and  the  pity  of  it  is  heightened  by  the  exquisite 
pastoral  scenes  in  which  it  is  mainly  set.  .  .  .  The  book  is  full 
of  suggestion  on  questions  which  have  never  agitated  men's 
minds  more  than  at  the  present  time.  ...  It  is  certainly  a  mas 
terpiece,  and  one  upon  which  the  reputation  of  the  author  may 
safely  rest. — N.  Y.  Tribune. 

Mr.  Hardy  has  written  a  novel  that  is  not  only  good,  but 
great.  .  .  .  "Tess  of  the  D'Urbervilles"  is  well  in  front  of  Mr. 
Hardy's  previous  work,  and  is  destined,  there  can  be  no  doubt, 
to  rank  high  among  the  achievements  of  Victorian  novelists. — 
Athencenm,  London. 

The  best  English  novel  that  has  appeared  for  many  a  day. 
.  .  .  The  book  is  the  most  ingeniously  constructed  and  artisti 
cally  developed  that  has  been  produced  by  an  English  novelist 
since  George  Eliot's  time. — Philadelphia  Bulletin. 

Powerful  and  strange  in  design,  splendid  and  terrible  in  exe 
cution,  this  story  brands  itself  upon  the  mind  as  with  the  touch 
of  incandescent  iron. — Academy,  London. 


PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  N.  Y. 

JJST-  The  above  work  is  for  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  will  be  sent  by  the 
publishers,  postage  prepaid,  to  any  part  of  the  United  States,  Can 
ada,  or  Mexico,  on  receipt  of  price. 


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